A Thin Red Line
by Crimson Bttrfly
Summary: "What if?" two little words that could tangle the threads of fate in an instant. After losing her sister to the harsh streets of Inuzuri, Hisana Kuchiki finally finds Rukia - with the help of her beloved husband. [AU]
1. Part I: In the Beginning

******Disclaimer:** I do not own or profit from _Bleach_.

* * *

**Part I: In the Beginning**

_With plum blossom scent, _

_This sudden sun emerges _

_Along a mountain trail_

–_Matsuo Basho_

* * *

_**Approximately 49 years from the beginning of the series...**_


	2. The Reunion

**The Reunion**

Wistfully, she stares through the rectangular opening in the door. The garden is abloom—vibrantly colored blossoms adorn the branches and shrubs. Even the diverted stream looks festive. Inhaling deeply, the fragrance of a thousand flowers swells in her chest and eases her mind. She holds her breath tightly in her chest until she feels like she is strangling. Her heart barely beats. Her eyes barely focus. The feeling swirling inside her is surreal.

Years, long and hard, she has waited for this exact moment. She has dreamed of it. Wished for it. Pled for it. She has fallen on bended knee, and, with head hung low and cheeks wet with the remnants of a thousand tears, she has prayed for this day, this event, to come to fruition.

She closes her eyes, and her hands catch in the silks of her kimono. Fingers curl against the soft fabric, creating folds and wrinkles in the robes that fall down her legs. With as much poise and restraint as her heart will allow, she lifts her head and exhales slowly.

She can wait a moment longer, she tells herself despite feeling as if she will burst into a thousand tiny pieces.

_Just another moment_.

* * *

"I have informed the Lady," a creaky voice cracks and hisses as it breaks over the room.

Byakuya Kuchiki stands calmly before his steward. Nodding his approval, the steward bows low before scurrying back into the darkness that lingers near the door. The clack of wood kissing wood tells him that he is now alone.

Alone, he has only his thoughts and a letter crumpled in his hand to keep him company. Again, he glances down at the thick paper. Hastily made brush strokes form the words—words he knows now by heart. He has read the missive at least a thousand times over, still trying to convince himself that this is _real_.

It does not _feel_ real. Not in the least.

Only a year ago, he was nearly set to mourn his wife. She was terminal, or so he had been told. He had been told a great many things that year, most of which had been well-crafted artifice.

_Lies_, his inner pragmatist corrected.

Indeed, the words that fell from the lips of several trusted advisors and relatives were nothing more than self-serving mendacities and _worse_. Yes, dark and wretched were the machinations that plagued his house merely a year ago. His relatives had written their debts in blood, and, once learned, he paid these debts in blood. Debts that his family _would not soon forget_.

"Rukia," he murmurs, studying the ink and the penmanship, both of which are poor quality.

He stuffs the letter in a pocket, and he crosses the floor. Quiet and deliberate are his footfalls and his intentions as he moves through dimly lit corridors. He traces the path to where he knows his wife will be waiting.

Part of him regrets not breaking the news himself. He imagines that she was stunned but happy upon learning the whereabouts of her sister. He imagines that she smiled then.

How long has it been since he last saw a genuine smile bend her lips? he wonders.

_A while_.

_A very long while._

Noiselessly, his fingertips brush against the cool wood of her door, and he slides it back. Just as he suspects, she stands staring out into the garden, with her back facing him. Her lines are soft and illuminated in the warm rays of afternoon. A golden halo lights the contours of her form. She is diminutive and shrunken from the year of devastating illness, but she has improved. It is slow, but she is transforming every day into the woman that he married six years ago.

She stirs, but she does not turn to face him. No, she waits for _him_ to announce his presence as is proper. But, he can tell that she is restraining herself. She trembles slightly—a sure sign that she is locking every muscle in place until he breaks the silence.

"It is time," he says at length.

In a graceful movement, she steps slightly to the side, just enough to glimpse him. She smiles joyously, triumphantly. Words cannot describe her happiness at the news or his at seeing the burden dissipate from her eyes.

"Yes, Lord Byakuya," she murmurs, lowering her head suppliantly. The words that she does not utter (but ones he feels all the same) linger between them, thick and potent.

_Thank you for everything_.

* * *

Rukia bites her lip, and she rolls back her head. Her brain goes numb from the words, ever increasing, that sprawl across the chalkboard in that tiny classroom. Her gaze floats between the instructor, an old wizened man who creaks when he moves and who drones on and on about…_something_, and the window, which is cracked enough to allow in the spring's fragrant breeze.

She would give _anything_ to be _somewhere_ else, and, as she gazes wistfully out the window, she imagines strolling through the marketplace. The weather is so mild and inviting, and the trees are all flowering. Such a vibrant display of pinks, purples, and whites beckon her, and her soul beckons back in reply.

_How unfair_, she groans inwardly. It is especially unfair since her errant _friend_ is likely frolicking _outside_ and _doing_ things. Important things, no doubt. Interesting things, too!

Reflexively, she narrows her eyes. _Idiot,_ she fumes, albeit _fondly_. Despite all the grief that she metes out to him, she is pleased that he is doing so well and is accomplishing so much. Maybe, just maybe, if he has a spare moment later in the day, he will regale her with stories of his classes, assignments, and conquests. And, maybe, just maybe, if she is lucky, she can convince him to do this rejoicing under the weeping cherry blossom tree that tempts her from outside the window.

She smiles briefly at the thought.

"Rukia!"

She springs back in her seat. Her eyes widen to the size of saucers and her breath stops short in her throat. She almost chokes on her own mortification.

Does the instructor even _know_ her name?

She is certain that she has never offered a single answer to a single question or attempted to raise a single inquiry all year. She has never volunteered for extraneous activities. She has never _spoken _to the instructor outside of class or during his office hours.

Was she in some sort of trouble?

She seemingly wanders in and out of the good graces of others for no rational reason. The intricate and random web of laws, protocols, and etiquette that binds _nobles_ constantly beguiles _her_. It is as if all her years spent in Inuzuri have irrevocably corrupted her ability to function socially. She lacks the shared community and history of her contemporaries. _Her_ experiences are alien and repulsive to them. Yet, it is all she has from which to draw, and, each time she leans against her past foundation, it proves unstable, and she garners nothing but harsh words, angry stares, and painful rebukes. Perhaps this was just another one of _those _instances?

"Rukia, go now to the welcoming vestibule! You have a guest," the instructor commands her while waving a notice in the air.

She stares at him, nonplussed. _A guest?_ she questions. She only knows one other soul and that is _Renji_. Renji would never dare to call her out of class, and he _certainly_ wouldn't be considered a "guest."

"Go, now!" the instructor growls. His gaze sharpens as she stares back at him, dumbfounded.

Blinking back her surprise, Rukia nods her head. "Yes, sir!" she stammers breathlessly before jumping to her feet. She remembers to bow low, and she rushes toward the door. She is sure she hears the class erupt into a chorus of snickering as she crosses the threshold, but everything becomes a blur as soon as she hits the hallway.

_Guest_? The word burns itself into her brain. _Who gets a guest at the Academy?_

Nobles, that's who.

A wrinkle forms between her brows at the realization. But, she's _not a noble_. She doesn't know any nobles that aren't students, either. Her lips slope into a frown as she considers other options.

_Maybe they are finally expelling me? Maybe they have figured out that I am an imposter. Found out that my test results were false positives. Now, they are sending me back to Inuzuri, or worse!_ The flurry of thoughts assails her mind, needling her with each step as she traverses the winding corridors.

With her heart beating feverishly in her throat, she enters the large capacious vestibule. The light is low cast and cool. Blues and blacks fill the space, lengthen the shadows, and veil the senses, giving her a false sense of calm. It takes her a moment to realize that the small assembly of people gathered in the middle of the room waits for _her_.

"Rukia?" A tremulous feminine voice grabs her attention.

Immediately, Rukia's eyes track the sound to find a woman. Everything goes blurry for a moment, as if her blood pressure has plummeted to insalubrious levels. For a moment, she wobbles, and her heart becomes all hard stops and hesitant starts inside her chest.

_It is impossible_, she tells herself. Utterly impossible. Yet, when her vision clears, it is the truth, bright and unwavering. The resemblance is uncanny. The woman, who stands before her, could be her doppelganger. Her slightly older mirror image. They look so alike that it haunts her.

Stunned, she takes a step back. Her nerves shoot electric currents under her skin, and her heart drops to the pit of her stomach. Nothing makes sense. It is all so sudden, so unexpected, that she can hardly process anything. Instead, she stands dumbstruck. Not a trace of her newly acquired etiquette softens her countenance. No, she dons the patented slack jaw expression of horror inherited from Inuzuri.

Her lips tremble as her mind sorts through her panic. Words, hot and sharp, flicker across her tongue, but they are fleeting, beating in her mouth like the wings of a butterfly. "Y-ye-yes?" Rukia quavers.

The woman's large probing eyes meet hers, and their gazes lock. The woman takes a small step forward. She offers Rukia an assuaging smile, and tears well in her eyes. "I am your sister."

* * *

_I passed!_ Renji sits staring at the mark on the thin piece of paper. His eyes go large, and he fights back the urge to smile. Maybe he just isn't interpreting the results properly? He was lucky the first time. But twice?

He blinks back the implications.

_I really passed?_ He fixes the evidence with an unwavering look. His eyes scrutinize each mistake, but there are few. So few that it strikes him as _strange_.

He draws in a shaky breath. Not only did he _pass_, he did _well_. A warm contented bubble rises in his chest, and, before he has the chance to suppress his excitement, he bolts out of the room.

Long strong strides make quick use of the burnished hardwood floors. "Rukia!" he calls down the corridor, feeling her presence lingering in the welcoming vestibule. "Check it out! I passed the second exam!" he calls jubilantly. Half of his words slur together, rendering his sentiments largely incomprehensible to anyone but Rukia, who is an expert at parsing his meaning from his thick Rukongai drawl. "If I pass the next one," he begins as he hurriedly draws back the door. His lips are ready to complete his thoughts, but his heart slams against his chest, cold and hard.

There is so much. So suddenly. So unexpectedly.

He doesn't know where to begin, where to look, what to say, or what to do.

Four men form a semicircle around Rukia, who is being held tightly in the arms of a woman—a woman, who Renji initially mistakes _as_ Rukia.

The breath escapes his chest and flees from his lips in a small sharp gasp. What is happening? Has he stepped into some strange illusion? Who is this woman, and why does she look like Rukia? Who are these strange men?

Renji blinks again, hopeful that maybe he is just seeing _double_.

He is _not_ seeing double.

His throat parches. His eyes widen. The burning flicker of muscle strain tells him that he is clenching everything to prevent him from saying or doing something gauche.

One of the males lifts his head. It is the one standing closest to Rukia. The movement pulls Renji's gaze, and Renji gives him a wide-eyed onceover.

_Kenseikan_, Renji thinks to himself as he observes the hair ornament first. He vaguely recognizes it from somewhere. Was it Kira or Momo who told him that Kenseikan signal high nobility?

_He is noble_.

In fact, as Renji considers the configuration more closely, he realizes the men are not surrounding Rukia so much as they are _protecting _the noble. Two of the males are bodyguards, and the elderly male, who stands hunched over behind the noble, is likely an attendant.

So, by process of elimination, the woman, holding Rukia, must be some relation to the nobleman relative. A wife? A sister? A far-flung cousin?

Tearfully, Rukia lifts her head and turns to give Renji a sidelong glance. The dim overhead light shimmers against her moist tear-tracked cheeks. She has been crying for a while, but she does not seem _distraught_ like she would if the news was _devastatingly bad_.

Rukia's shifting draws the woman's gaze up and across the room to Renji. The woman's eyes focus on Renji, and she studies him intently.

He tenses. It is surreal how closely she resembles Rukia. They look like siblings.

"Oh," the attendant states in a low gravel, "It seems that this is not the place to talk."

The woman straightens her posture. Her shoulders level, and her chest rises. Tenderly, she clasps Rukia's small shoulders in her hands, and she smiles somberly at Rukia. There is a gravity in the woman's stare—a gravity that resonates with Renji even if he does not understand its meaning.

The woman then turns her attention to Renji. She regards him with a soft gaze. "A friend?" her voice is thin as if she is forcing it up an inflamed throat. Her eyes then drift to Rukia.

Rukia nods and manages a broken smile.

"From Inuzuri?"

Clearly, she heard his excited utterances before he burst into the room and trampled whatever moment was transpiring. Was his dialect that strong? he wonders to himself.

"Since childhood," Rukia responds, staring weepy-eyed into the woman's face.

The woman takes a few small steps in his direction, and she bows. "My gratitude, sir," she says, holding the bow a moment longer than necessary for a woman of her rank. "Thank you. I hope you remain friends."

"We will take our leave," the attendant informs Rukia.

Renji does not see the initial look or movement, but he assumes the nobleman has indicated his readiness to depart the Academy. With a small nod, the nobleman fixes the woman with a look. She replies in kind.

"Yes," she murmurs, turning to Rukia.

The nobleman crosses the floor, and, as he approaches Renji's position, he pauses when he reaches the woman. He gives her a gentle look. For a brief moment, the chilliness of the nobleman's demeanor melts as she smiles demurely at him.

The attendant falls behind the woman and the nobleman, pausing only to regard Rukia one final time. "We anxiously await your response," the attendant states impassively.

The woman arches her head enough to glimpse Rukia. "If you need anything, Rukia, do not hesitate to ask me." Her demeanor is warm and kind.

Rukia nods her head. "Yes, Sister."

A clicking noise sounds in Renji's ears right before his brain goes into cognitive overload. _Sister?_ Maybe Rukia is being polite? Some of the students refer to their elders and mentors as "sisters" or "brothers." Maybe this woman was just an older student?

That wouldn't explain the nobleman and the retinue of servants, however.

Nonplussed, Renji locks eyes with Rukia. A tense look creases her visage, and she presses her lips together, likely suppressing the urge to say something. Whom she wishes to address, however, he has no idea.

The woman gives a shallow bow of her head as she passes Renji. The nobleman, however, does not spare Renji even the most cursory of glances.

Renji considers this for a moment, but his thoughts are soon interrupted; the nobleman's reiatsu crashes over him like a tidal wave, swallowing him whole. Renji suddenly breaks out in a cold sweat. His heart hammers an erratic beat in his chest—the type of beat that sends powerful ripples throughout his entire body. Every alarm sounds in his head.

_Such a powerful presence. He didn't even glance at me_. No, the nobleman hardly seemed to notice Renji at all. Not even as he stops to wait for the woman to take her place at his side.

She glances back, however. A small doleful expression lingers in her eyes and play across her lips before they leave.

Consumed by confusion, Renji's head drops down, and his eyes glue to the floorboards. Collecting his thoughts take some effort.

"Renji?" Rukia's voice cuts through his mental haze, and, when his head snaps up, he has a sense that he has missed some of her words.

"Oh, Rukia," he murmurs in a low tone. "The atmosphere was a bit tense there. What happened?"

Darkness crosses her features. Pain, regret, or sorrow colors her. Either way, he can tell that she is in the middle of solving some complex riddle.

"That was my sister," she says. When she raises her head, he can see the disbelief clouding her eyes. "I have a sister." It sounds like a question on her lips, but he is sure that she is merely repeating a fact.

He nods his head approvingly. "She looks like your sister." It is true. The likeness is unmistakable. If they _weren't related_ then he would find it _more eerie._

"She wants to bring me into the Kuchiki family," Rukia murmurs. Her gaze trails to the floor, and a pink color creeps across her cheeks. She is flustered, Renji observes. Not that he blames her. The news _is_ overwhelming.

"Is she a Kuchiki?" Renji asks the obvious.

"She is Lady Kuchiki," Rukia confirms. "That was her husband, Lord Kuchiki," she says as if "_that" _needs no explanation. Although, Renji guesses that it doesn't really. The Kenseikan, the expensive silks, and the elaborate haori-himo all signified which male was the noble.

"They say they will have me graduate immediately," she continues, her eyes staring into the middle distance. "Renji…I…This," she stammers, desolately trapped in her own thoughts. "Could it be true?"

She has mixed feelings, he notes. Her apprehension is so palpable that _he_ feels anxious _on her behalf_. He understands it all the same, however. It seems too good to be true. A family, a title, food, money, comfort—these were the things that they only _dreamed_ were possible. To have all those things in a stroke of fate seemed _impossible_.

He would have questioned himself, too.

She would look a fool if she extended her hand to reach and failed.

She would look a fool if she refused.

She was going to beat herself up about it, he knew. She was going to torture her poor mind and body on thoughts and ideas. He could see the grief already weaving sad lines on her face. Even if she _wanted_ to be a Kuchiki princess, she felt undeserving. She felt like she was asking too much, like she wasn't worth it.

She isn't asking too much, and she is worth it, Renji reasons.

And so, with heavy heart and great pain, Renji feigns excitement. He bends down, and he clasps her arms tightly. She is warm and tense, and, for a brief moment, she stares up at him in wild panic.

He ignores her. He has a part to play, and her pitiful glances will not deter him. "Isn't that great?" he asks, staring into her eyes.

"Ah?" she cries.

"You have a sister! You have family! And, once you are a Kuchiki, you become a noble! That is awesome! You'll be surrounded by endless riches! You can eat whatever you want if you're a noble!" he says riotously, chortling at the ideas lighting up his imagination. "Ah," he begins again, but this time he is wistful, "I envy you! And you get to graduate immediately!" How nice, he thinks. What he would give to graduate in less than a year! That surely has be some sort of record? Right? "Now, I am just dead jealous!"

Rukia grabs his arm, and he flinches. His fingers, once tightly gripping her shoulder, jerk away from her as if she has caught flame. Had he been grasping her that entire time?

"Really?" she asks. A pensive look darkens her eyes. She scrutinizes him. She reads the lines of his brow the way scholars read philosophical tomes. Nothing escapes her gaze, and he realizes that she has read his intentions well. Too well.

"Thank you," she says, turning her cheek.

Before he can say something or stop her, she pulls away. The distance between them grows with each of Rukia's footfalls. Until he can no longer hear the slapping sound her feet make against the wood. Until he can no longer feel the gentle flicker of her reiatsu.

The distance—physical and emotional—stifles him. It steals his breath and smothers the flame burning in his heart. And, he wonders if he will ever see her again, or if she will ever regard him with the same fondness as he has grown to expect from her.

The possibility of her deprivation proves devastating, but he knows that it is the only way. He will never stand between her and her chance at the good life. He will never hold her back. He loves her like family, and he knows those familial bonds hold strong even in absence, even in deprivation.


	3. The Acceptance

**Summary: **Rukia's acceptance plunges her into a world of fine silks and strange sensibilities. Hisana and Byakuya consider Rukia's future. Renji is beginning to understand the implications of Rukia's affiliation with the Kuchiki House.

* * *

**Acceptance**

Hisana's lips pull to the side as she pores over the Kuchiki family finances. "The math isn't right," she sighs to herself. Sometimes, she thinks the family does it just to spite her. It is their form of protest or, worse, _retribution_ for her holding the title of Lady Kuchiki.

She does not particularly _blame_ them even if she does find their antics petty and hurtful. She partly feels that she _deserves_ the punishment. After all, she is _common_. No, she is _worse_ than common. She hails from one of the toughest, foulest, most disgraceful districts of them all, and, not once, has she had the good sense to renounce her birthplace. Indeed, she has wallowed in it, reveled in it, searched it, wandered its streets day in and day out, making a greater spectacle of herself in the process.

And she has _loved_ every minute of her time in Inuzuri as Lady Kuchiki.

Her Rukon heritage is undeniably part of her—a dimension of her soul that she clings to for support in her darkest of moments. She has overcome poverty, violence, and the horrors of low status to become the Lady of one of society's most esteemed houses. It took a lot of maneuvering and _heart_ to accomplish such a feat.

Many are quick to forget _that_.

It is an _inconvenient_ implication of her comparative status. No, it is much easier to characterize her as a docile but poorly bred blight.

Sometimes, she takes comfort in that misdirection. It is an easier part to play. And she does love conforming to the role the family has devised for her. It makes playing against type—being _herself_, in other words—in those rare moments that much more gratifying and surprising.

So, donning the role of the complacent woman, Hisana's gaze fixes the numbers scrawled across the paper, and she scrutinizes every line of the ledger. Recalculating the expenses proves tedious and _daunting_, but she has become accustomed to such tasks. Every month, it is the same. If she is lucky, the miscalculation comes toward the end.

She is rarely _so fortunate_.

Halfway through her task, an idea seizes her. That idea quickly transforms into an epiphany. It is irresistible, and she beams at her sudden shining moment of clarity.

_Something to take the place of scouring Rukongai_. Indeed, now that her sister has been located, she has contemplated the manner in which she will fill her time. Now, she may have found a new purpose.

. . . .

Rukia carefully folds what little she has for the twentieth time. The movements of turning down the edges of cloth coupled with the feel of her scratchy and threadbare kimono against her hands and arms proves relaxing. It is mindless action. Her thoughts go numb, and she concentrates on the feeling of air entering and exiting her lungs.

_In._

She folds the arms of her Rukon robes back.

_Out. _

She folds the garment again.

_In._

She unfurls the material in a quick gesture.

_Out._

She begins to re-fold the yukata.

_Clack. Clack. Clack_, goes the door to her room.

The sound of knuckle against wood sets her aflutter. "Yes?" she calls, nearly jumping out of her skin.

"Lady Kuchiki arrives."

Rukia's eyes widen, and she sucks in a hard cold breath. She expects a servant to collect her and her things. In fact, she is certain the missive read, _'The Lady will send her personal servants to collect you and your provisions.'_ She recalls the line; she has etched its characters into her brain; they are indelible and available to conjure up at a moment's notice.

_A mistake?_

"Y-ye-yes," she stammers excitedly.

A few moments pass before the whooshing sound of the door drawing back on its track fills the room. Immediately, Rukia falls to her knees and bows. Her chest and lips press fast against the slick wooden floorboards, and her arms stretch out in front of her head.

The fluttering of silk catches her gaze as she dares to glance up.

"Oh dear," Hisana cries softly. "There is no need to bow to me in your own dormitory." She immediately bends down, knees against the floor, and she cups Rukia's cheek in her hand. Her fingers are cold but tender. "Please, we are sisters," she says soothingly, easing Rukia's head up. "I cannot abide such formality from my own flesh and blood."

Rukia's eyes widen. A mixture of fear, panic, and disgrace glisten in her look. She doesn't know quite how to behave or what to say. She knows how to treat kindred spirits like Renji. She knows how to behave around nobles like the academy students. But a _noble sibling_? The combination baffles her. She has no clue or script to follow. There is no mystical guide or innate sense that provides her with the right lines, the right movements, or the right expression.

Gaping, she follows her sister's gentle prodding until she is sitting proper seiza. "I'm so-sor," she begins, but her sister's silent shake of the head silences her.

"I am the one who should be apologizing!" Hisana chuckles lightly. The light that shines brightly in her violet eyes quickly scatters until she appears remote and sincere. "I am sorry," she murmurs with creased brow and a heavy breath. "I know this does not make up for the years of absence, but I hope to make amends."

Rukia blinks, uncomprehending. _Amends for what?_ she wonders. It is not as if her sister _chose_ to assign her in Inuzuri or for the Powers That Be to separate them. An algorithm sent them to random locations. The fact that they found one another at all is remarkable, and Rukia feels blessed to have such a noble sister.

"Come," Hisana says, tucking a stray tress behind Rukia's ear. "I have so much to show you."

Rukia smiles faintly as her sister helps her to her feet. Part of her wants desperately to express her gratitude, but everything feels like it is happening so quickly. She feels breathless and lightheaded as if someone has spun her around and summarily set her loose like a whirling dervish.

She is sure she will falter, and, caught in prickly thoughts, she nearly does. Right on her face. A quick hand against her shoulder, however, steadies her.

"Rukia?" her sister calls, bending down to study her. "You are as pale as a sheet of paper." Immediately, Hisana turns to her body servant, a young girl dressed in a brightly colored kimono. "Will you fetch me some water?"

Rukia catches the flicker of the servant's robes as she scampers out the door. "I am alright," she says shakily.

"Are you sure?" Hisana's brows furrow empathetically.

Rukia can tell that her sister needs some convincing before she will release her grasp. So, she nods, sifting through her anxiety and stuffing it down. "I am just nervous. I never had a sister before."

A small smile curves Hisana's lips. "No need to be nervous."

Rukia bows her head and inhales a deep breath. Anything to recover her composure. A few painfully quiet moments pass between the two before Rukia locates her mental equilibrium.

"My things," she says softly to herself. She nearly forgot _why_ Hisana waits so patiently.

Rukia gives a resolute nod of her head, and she takes a few long strides forward to her small writing desk. Other than her academy silks, which she wears proudly, she possesses only her Asauchi, a small journal, and the ratty kimono inherited from her Rukongai days. Bundling these items in her arms, she turns to her sister.

Suddenly, an overwhelming feeling of embarrassment rises in her chest before surging through her already overloaded system. Her heart sinks. Her cheeks sting. Her nerves pop in synchrony with her heartbeats. A bright pink color sweeps across her face, and she goes numb, as her blood turns icy in her veins.

She owns four things in the whole world, two of which are on _loan_ from the Academy.

Mastering the panic that sets in at her meager worth, she glances up at her sister. How much she would give to have had a servant collect her instead! Anything!

Hisana regards her with a penetrating stare. "A yukata from Inuzuri?" she inquires with a pensive look. She takes a small step forward to inspect the material. Her fingers brush the coarse fabric, and she tilts her head to the side. "It has been so long," she murmurs, smiling wistfully as if recalling her days spent in Inuzuri.

Rukia's brows furrow. Had her sister been sent to Inuzuri upon death? It certainly seems like she is familiar with the area beyond scouring it, at least. Hisana had Renji pegged as hailing from the South 78th without much evidence save for his dialect.

"I remember this material well." Her gaze flickers to Rukia, and her smile lengthens. "Tell me Rukia, which do you prefer? The Academy silks? Or the Rukon hemp?"

No question. "The silks!" Rukia blurts out, not quick enough to smother the visceral response.

Hisana cocks a brow and grins. "Then we shall purchase you some silk."

Rukia's eyes widen, and her jaw drops. "Really?" Flabbergasted, her gaze trails down to the scratchy fabric. It is inconceivable to her that she could possess anything other than threadbare, uncomfortable hand-me-down's.

"Of course," her sister says as if it is only natural. "I will have a servant return your uniform to the Academy later this evening once we find some garments to your liking."

"Thank— " Rukia begins, but her sister won't hear any of it.

"No need," Hisana says, swatting the attempt at gratitude away like a pesky fly. "Come, the day is fading, and I still have so much to explain." She beseeches Rukia to follow her with a small gesture of her hand, and she moves to the door.

Rukia's muscles lock for a brief moment. Always hesitant and searching. Years spent in Inuzuri have beaten caution and doubt into her. Indeed, they are old reliable friends now, and, only after sensing that this is _not a trap_, Rukia steps forward. Her movements are light and tentative as she follows her sister into the corridor.

A second sight has already whispered warnings into her ears, and she goes stock still upon seeing the spectacle that her dismissal has created. Some students—the ones that are either too polite or too arrogant to gawk—peek out from their rooms. Other students stop mid-step and stare in wide eye wonderment. Several students cover their mouths with hands or with fans so they can express thoughts, captious and biting, to nearby friends.

To think, Rukia muses, that just a few moments before her sister arrived to collect her, the hallways were clear and quiet. (Or as quiet as the dormitory could be during class hours.)

Rukia frowns. It is reflexive on her part. But, a silent protest is written loud and clear on her face. Collecting her thoughts, she forces her feet to move, but it takes great effort. It takes even greater effort to unglue her gaze from the floor.

Her hands fist in the silk cascading down her legs as she forces her head up. She searches the hallway for her sister, who is serenely waiting for her.

She wonders how her sister manages to _ignore_ the attention. Years of practice? Perhaps her sister doesn't even notice the onlookers anymore? At this thought, Rukia shudders. Will she, too, inure to the burn of stares and the vitriolic comments that spew from the lips of her contemporaries?

Shoving the thoughts to the back of her mind, she lengthens her stride, but, just as she reaches Hisana, a brusque male voice steals her sister's attention. "Lady Kuchiki, what a pleasure!"

Rukia cannot see the man through the throng of servants and students, but she recognizes his voice. Or, rather, she recognizes a _version_ of his voice. A low, terse version that cracks and bleeds with violence and frustration. It is free of those undertones, now. It sounds deep and rich, almost melodic. Not a note of malice.

_He is pouring it on thick_, her inner Rukon street urchin noisily notes in her head. And she knows those types of about-faces came with an _expectation_.

"President Kikuchi," Hisana greets with equal flare, and Rukia smiles, seeing a piece of herself flash across her sister's visage. "How is the construction on the new building coming along?"

Her sister's voice has a well-concealed edge to it, Rukia observes, and she wonders why. Pressing close to Hisana, Rukia peers up at the President of the Spiritual Arts Academy. He is a short, squatty man with graying hair combed to the side. He looks _official_. Not a thread out of place. Ever. Rumor has it that he is a _strict disciplinarian_. Rukia, luckily, has had only limited contact with him, seeing him at various Academy-sponsored events.

Her sister, it seems, knows the President intimately. Or, at least, that is what he wishes everyone to believe. She is unsure whether her sister feels similarly.

"Well!" he says ebulliently, grinning widely. "Your family's _generous donation_ has ensured that the project will be completed in a timely manner."

"How wonderful," Hisana responds, bowing her head politely enough. "I will make sure to tell my husband. He is a _loyal supporter_ of the Academy's efforts."

Rukia's eyes drift from her sister to the President. Something about Hisana's words, especially the latter sentiment, rings hollow to Rukia's ears. A sinking feeling betokens, first, that the donation is a recent thing, and, second, that it was given for a particular _purpose_ that goes beyond simple charity.

"We appreciate his patronage," he murmurs, bowing low.

Hisana forces a smile. "Thank you, President Kikuchi." She turns to Rukia, and her stiff smile softens. "Have you met my sister?" she asks, gesturing gracefully in Rukia's direction.

"Yes. A lovely, talented student. Her loss will be greatly felt."

Rukia stares dumbfounded at the sudden and unexpected complement. Lovely and talented? Not the feeling she got while at the Academy. More like present-but-not-very-promising.

Hisana shoots Rukia a knowing and wry glance. "How kind, Rukia," she murmurs tersely.

_A cue_, Rukia realizes, and she jumps at the realization. "Thank you, President Kikuchi, your words touch me," and she bows.

"I am sure she will make an honorable Shinigami."

Rukia bows again and keeps her eyes locked to the burnished wooden floorboards.

"Keep us in mind should you require further funding," Hisana says generously, but Rukia immediately questions her candor.

The President, however, does not. "We will."

Realizing that her sister has tired of pleasantries, Rukia quickly bows her farewell and trails after Hisana.

Upon exiting the Academy's domain, Hisana's gait slows. Reading her sister's intentions, Rukia bursts forward. Questions buzz in her head, but she manages to swallow them for propriety's sake.

"President Kikuchi curries a lot of favor in the community," Hisana murmurs.

"You do not enjoy his company," Rukia observes. As soon as the words leave her lips, she cups her mouth and stares at her sister, wide-eyed and repentant. She doesn't know why, but she feels comfortable speaking freely with Hisana. Many of her sister's mannerisms remind her of her own. They are more refined from years of practice, but they undoubtedly originate from a shared heritage.

"No need to censor yourself around me," Hisana says gently. "But, is it _that _obvious?" her voice drops to a whisper, and she bends her head towards Rukia.

Rukia smiles. "I don't think he noticed," she replies earnestly. He didn't seem to, anyway. Perhaps his hubris simply gets in the way of his ability to _read_ others? Rukia wonders.

"They never do," Hisana sighs. Her sister's words are likely a commentary on the well-regarded and titled men roaming Seireitei.

_A good thing to know_, Rukia thinks to herself.

"Come," Hisana murmurs as she casts aside her pensive expression, "let us find you some suitable kimono." Genially, she loops her arm around Rukia's and pulls her in the direction of a shop.

. . . .

"You shouldn't," Izuru begins in his soft 'this is just between us' voice, "go near her ever again."

Renji starts, feeling Izuru's sidelong gaze catch him. He doesn't have to look. He knows that Izuru is behind him with his head hung low and with eyes fixing him. How does his friend know his inner thoughts? he doesn't quite understand. Is he staring too hard? Too eagerly? Like a dog begging for scraps?

Exhaling a small breath, he closes his eyes.

She accepted the offer.

Just like she should have.

Just like he told her to.

He tortures himself on the thought of whether he forced her to do it. He doubts it. For a moment, he thinks that she would have accepted even if he had not said a word. Even if he had pretended that it never happened. But, what if…

What if he had asked her to refuse?

He squeezes his eyes as he considers the question. Never. Not in a million years would he have asked her to make such a choice. He loves her as if she is his own flesh and blood. He loves her more than he loves his own happiness or his own safety. She deserves the best even if _the best_ means never seeing him again.

"I know," he says, drawing out the words in a long breath. _I know_.

"It's for your sake," Izuru explains, obviously feeling a modicum of pity for his friend, "and hers, too."

Renji raises his head. He knows. Izuru doesn't have to tell _him_. He _knows_. But, he doesn't ask Izuru to stop. No, he goes still, numb, and dark. He waits for his friend to complete his observation, bracing himself for the sting of words and thoughts too painful to admit to himself.

"She knows it herself. She's in a completely different place from us," Izuru finishes.

_Us._ The implication hits Renji like a fist to the face. If even Izuru, who is born of noble blood, is beneath Rukia, what the hell does that make _him_? _Dirt? Worse than dirt?_ Does she think that now? Now, that she is a _noble_? Does she loathe him? Find him repugnant?

Renji can still feel the heat of Izuru's gaze bore into his neck. Yet, it does not shake his stare. It does not stop him from watching as Rukia passes through the corridor, keeping step with her sister. The two are speaking. Renji cannot hear the words; they are too low, too soft, too fleeting. But, Rukia seems at ease as she shares a glance with Lady Kuchiki. A small smile ghosts across her lips before she bows her head. Her hair obscures her expression, but Renji knows that she is still holding the smile.

She never once turns to him despite his wanton staring. She must feel him nearby, he thinks. She has to. They have known each other for so long. So many days and nights have they shared, struggling and surviving the worst of it. She must sense his presence; she has to feel the beat of his reiatsu as she crosses in front of him.

Yet, she never turns her head in his direction. Never deigns to cast a small look his way. Instead, she merely walks on, keeping pace with her sister and smiling _happily_ to herself.

And, why shouldn't she?

She is a noble after all.

. . . .

Rukia stares into the mirror. Her eyes are so wide that she can see their whites reflecting back at her. Her cheeks go pink, and her lips part. Clumsily she lifts her arms at her sides, and she stares, dumbfounded.

What does she say? There are no words. The whole thing is so foreign. So strange. The silks feel heavy and restrictive, unlike the Academy uniform.

She feels like she is going to expire. Right there. Right then. In front of everyone.

Her sister steadies her with a caressing touch and a soothing look. "It is a woman's curse," she whispers playfully as she straightens the obi and tugs the fabric, releasing several gaps and wrinkles. "Men adore us so much that they fashion garments to keep us from escaping."

Rukia smiles at the quip, finding her sister's eyes in the mirror. She wonders if Hisana speaks from experience. Her sister's impish grin and devious gaze hint at the stories that she keeps locked behind her pink lips—stories that make Rukia intensely curious about the Lord of the House.

"Peonies," Hisana says, nodding approvingly at the pattern, "it is appropriate for spring." She tilts her head as she considers the kimono.

For a moment, Rukia feels as if she has bled into the background. Her sister's gaze strips her of her humanity. Instead of Rukia, she is merely a pretty _object_, or, more exactly, a breathing piece of _art_.

"It is lovely," Rukia musters in a weak voice. She cringes inwardly at the sound of her voice. It is broken, leaving her in sharp fragments.

Hisana's gaze trails up to her face. "You do not like it?" she asks. Concern glazes her eyes.

"No, I do," Rukia manages convincingly enough. It isn't that she _doesn't_ _like it_. It is just that she feels awkward buried under a mountain of silk and priceless other accessories. She doesn't quite know the _cost_, but she can only _imagine_ that the money required to purchase it could feed the residents of Inuzuri for a month.

Hisana's eyes soften, and a knowing expression eases the worry lines that crease her forehead. "I see," she murmurs. A spark of recognition lights her visage for a moment, and she waves her hand. "I felt similarly," she says with a gentle voice, "It is overwhelming."

Rukia nods feverishly. It _is_ overwhelming. So much, so suddenly. It feels like a deluge of good fortune, and, instead of basking in it, she is drowning.

"We have kimono at the manor," Hisana says kindly. "Choose the ones you like the most, Rukia, but don't feel pressured to select something that you do not like. You have many years ahead of you to search kimono."

Rukia smiles. "Thank you, Sister," she says, bowing low. "You are too—"

Hisana sighs, waving the pleasantries aside. Clearly, she will not have _any _of it. "Now, Rukia, what about your friend from yesterday?"

Rukia springs back up. Her back goes ramrod straight, and she stares at her sister. Does Hisana mean what _she_ thinks her sister means?

"The redhead that seemed so keen to tell you about his test results?" Hisana expounds, misreading Rukia's blank stare.

"Yes," Rukia says, nodding, "Renji." What about Renji? she wonders. Is her sister going to forbid her from ever seeing him again? She holds her breath and prays that such is not the case.

"He is from Inuzuri, correct?" Hisana begins, placing her index finger against her lips. She stares ponderingly to the side.

"Yes."

"So that means that he does not have anything other than the Academy uniform, too?"

Rukia nods, slowly beginning to see where her sister's logic is heading.

"We should select something for him, too!" Hisana says, smiling brightly at Rukia.

Excitedly, Rukia bows low. "You would do that?"

Hisana places a hand against her sister's back. "When we send the parcel, we should invite him to tea," she says, staring distantly ahead. Some strange idea ensnares Hisana, Rukia observes as she straightens. It is as if Hisana is solving some complex calculation. "Bonds forged in adversity are not easily broken, Rukia. Nor should they be."

Rukia glances at her sister, nonplussed. What cryptic words, she thinks. What do they mean? Does her sister think that her sudden status will separate them now? Should it? Rukia doesn't think it should, but nobles are strange creatures with even stranger customs and sensibilities. Perhaps it is expected that she should cast aside her one and only friend for the sake of… _protocol_? She doesn't doubt that she would do it if required of her, to show her respect and fidelity to her sister and to make life easier for Renji, but that doesn't mean her heart doesn't chill at the prospect.

Hisana rakes Rukia's hair out of the collar of the kimono. "What do you think he would like?"

Rukia beams at her sister. "I think I saw a garment over here," she murmurs, quickly tracing her steps back to where she saw the gray kimono. "What do you think?"

Hisana smiles, favorably. "It looks very handsome." Her lips part, but a servant interrupts her next thought.

Rukia does not hear the servant's whispers, but she can tell that her sister is displeased. The lines of Hisana's face grow tense, and her eyes darken.

"My apologies, Rukia," she begins, "A pressing matter requires my attention. My servants will ensure that you are well taken care of. Select the kimono you desire, and make sure to include that invitation to your friend." She bows slightly and shoots Rukia a sweet lingering gaze before leaving.

Rukia glances helplessly at a young female servant, who smiles brightly before moving to her side. "Do not worry, Lady Kuchiki, I will assist you."

The servant proves to be incredibly helpful and willing to please, reading Rukia's apprehension and hesitance with great ease. She selects two kimono at the prodding of the servant along with the gray kimono for Renji. The servant handles the invitation to tea, drafting an elegant card to accompany the gift.

Rukia studies the purchase, pursing her lips. She knows that Renji will secretly like the kimono, but she worries that he will reject her kindness. She worries that it may offend him even though it is far from her intention.

"He will know," the servant says sweetly, comforting her with an assuaging glance as they begin into the market.

Rukia blinks, confused.

"That the gift is a code," the servant explains.

"A code?" Rukia murmurs. Her brows furrow, and she wonders what the _code_ means.

"Yes," the bright-faced servant chirps like a songbird, "That you may continue your friendship."

Rukia's eyes drift to the cobblestone. "Of course," her voice sounds distant even to her ears. Hopefully, Renji can decipher the gift's meaning or, at the very least, has a friend who can.

. . . .

Byakuya enters his ancestral estate with a heavy sigh and a tired body. Every muscle and sinew cries out from the brutal punishment that he has dealt. He wonders how much longer his training must continue, and, instinctively, he shoots Senbonzakura a stray but heated onceover as he draws the sword and its sheath from his hakama.

Before he has the proper chance to cross the threshold, his wife has taken his sword and offered him a cup of tea. He halts mid-step, taken aback. He is not expecting Hisana. In fact, he is expecting a _change_ to occur since taking in his sister-in-law. He is unsure of what kind of change it will be, but he knows he will not like it. And, he strongly suspects that it will steal the precious few moments he has with his wife.

Yet, as he watches Hisana's lissome form bend to place his Zanpakutō on its stand, everything seems to be as it has always been. "I was expecting you to be with your sister," he murmurs, impassively.

Satisfied with Senbonzakura's placement, Hisana turns her head and glances askance at him. "While my husband is in residence?" she asks, clearly finding the implications of his assumption inconceivable. Standing, she regards him with an affectionate gaze.

He tilts his head to the side as he studies her. Nothing has changed between them, and he feels a warm comfort at this observation. As much as he is reticent to admit it, he depends on her. She cultivates a tranquility in his quarters that would otherwise turn to oppressive silence in her absence. She handles the family business with a shrewdness that he does not wish to contemplate nor does he have the time to learn. And, her unwavering support is irreplaceable.

Crossing the floor, she gently helps him out of his garments. Her touches are gentle and light. If he does not pay close attention, he misses them completely. But, piece by piece, he is shed of his robes, and, piece by piece, she clothes him in fresh silk.

"Your poor body," she notes as she straightens his collar.

He glimpses her out of the corner of his eyes. She catches his look, and it prompts her to continue. "You move like an old man," she teases, gently guiding him to a sitting mat.

He smiles dimly at her observation. Indeed, he _feels_ like an old man after training with Senbonzakura. Every muscle burns with the fiery contempt of a thousand suns when he tries to move. Even sitting feels like a herculean labor. His wife, however, eases his pain with tender touches. Her hands, small and nimble, massage his shoulders. His breathing becomes easy, and the sparks of agony begin to diminish under her care.

"You went to the spring," she observes, gathering his hair at the nape his neck in a loose ponytail in her hand.

The ends must still be damp, he muses. "Yes," he replies, shutting his eyes for a moment. He can tell that she is frowning. He can almost _hear _it as she exhales a heavy breath. Her touches become feather-light, as if she is afraid that she may aggravate his inflamed muscles.

He catches her hand and holds it for a moment. He can smell her perfume, white plum, on her sleeve, and he inhales a deep breath, letting her fragrance sink into his lungs. "Rukia," he begins, trying his hardest to rouse his tired thoughts; it is never an easy task with his wife nearby. She can shred his resolve with a look.

Hisana gracefully takes a seat across from him, and she clasps his hand in both of hers. "My sister?" she urges him to continue.

"I have secured her an unseated position at the Thirteenth."

Hisana nods. "A sinecure, in other words?"

A small half-smile lengthens his lips at his wife's words. There is no use in beating around the bush with her. Yet, despite her directness, he does not detect dissatisfaction with his efforts. "She would perform duties of an unseated officer," he explains evenly.

Hisana lifts her head and inhales a shaky breath. "Does her skill level merit an unseated position?" she asks.

"It will keep her safe," he states in attempt to sound commanding, but he falls short. He falls short because he _intends_ to discuss the option with his wife despite his well-practice haughtiness.

"You did not answer my question, Lord Byakuya," she observes through a knowing grin.

"I do not know. She would have to take an officer's test."

"Will she not have to take an officer's test anyway?"

"Even for the _sinecure_, you mean?" he asks, teasingly.

Hisana's grin widens at his language. "Yes, even for the sinecure."

He nods and takes a sip of his tea. "For recordkeeping, yes."

"And if she does well enough to merit a seated position?"

"She would receive an unseated position."

Hisana frowns at this. "Do you think she would _want_ a seated position?"

Byakuya stares at her, unsure if she is trying to bait him. "I do not know what she wants." A prevarication, he knows. One that his wife immediately catches.

"Do you think most of the students at the Academy want seated or unseated positions?" she tries again.

"Hisana," he murmurs warningly, "I am in no mood for sophistry."

She smiles at him, knowing all too well that he has caught on to her. "If you are asking my opinion because you value my insight, then I think it would be prudent to allow her to take the officer's test after the yearlong tutoring as planned. If her skill merits a seated position and she wants it, then she should have that option." Her smile fades as she considers the implications. "However, if you are asking for me to listen to your plan as a courtesy, then I will not oppose you."

Byakuya's gaze trails to the side. "Very well," he says, thoughtfully. "We will let the officer's examination determine her rank."

Hisana squeezes her husband's hand. "Come," she says, softly, "we should take a stroll through the garden and see the plum trees."

His expression softens at her offer, and he is eager to accept until his muscles cry out in protest. His wife, however, helps him to his feet, and leads him to the garden door. Just as she draws back the panel, she turns, eying him slyly. "So why the Thirteenth and not the Sixth?"

"Because I am not a stupid man."

His orders, when he assumes his captainship, will not be the ones that send his wife's beloved sister to the Fourth or worse.

She giggles heartedly at his response. "Indeed," she says, tucking her arm against his as they cross into the garden.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading and reviewing! It means a lot! Also, the beginning portion is intentionally left ambiguous; it will be fleshed out in time.


	4. The House Rules

**Summary:** Renji and friends speculate over the meaning of Rukia's gift and invitation for tea. Rukia learns a few secrets about the Kuchiki family. Hisana and Byakuya discuss political maneuvering.

* * *

**The House Rules**

Renji stretches his tired muscles as he enters the corridor. Arms pull behind him, and his fingers lace at his back. He holds the pose until he feels a simmering burn then he releases.

_Nothing._

It is a futile attempt to rouse his senses. Abso-fucking-lutely futile. He has been up almost two days straight, and what he wouldn't give just to go to _sleep_. The thought of his head against a pillow tantalizes him, and his sad sorry body cries out for the sensation of sheets rustling in his ears. His eyes sting. His muscles ache. His head pounds. He grows lousy with exhaustion. His body is wrecked, from his slowed cognition down to his dead-in-the-water reflexes.

The antidote, he tells himself, is just a few meters away. Just a few paces down the winding hall lay his room and, more importantly, his bed.

Only a few more steps. A few more turns around a corner. Another door or two. And, just as he draws back the door to the dormitory hall, he starts at the chorus of whispers that crashes over him. The noise is harsh and discordant like the sound of a thousand hissing snakes. _Hissing venomous snakes_, he reminds himself as he catches nobles shooting scorching glares in his direction.

Instinctively, he glances behind him. Nope. No one at his back, which means he's the target of today's Torture the Pauper game_. _In fact, he is the only one outside the huddled mass of students, that gathers in the middle of the floor.

_Mail, already?_ he wonders to himself.

Sure enough, some of the students are clenching decorative papers with fine calligraphy scrawling down the page. Other students clutch parcels and brown packages to their chest. But, the intrigue does not _appear_ to be over the mail itself, which usually causes enough panic on its own.

"Renji Abarai?" the courier, a small boy who strains his entire body to see over the throng of students, shouts above the ruckus. "Renji Abarai?" he calls again.

Renji stares incredulously ahead.

Did he just hear that right? Did the mail boy just call _his _name? Who the hell does he know that would send him _mail_? He hasn't _applied_ for anything—no employment positions or extracurricular activities. He has no friends outside of class. So, what new hell is _this_?

"Renji Abarai?" the small boy cries again.

Renji takes a small step forward. Is this some sort of joke? Ha, ha, give the poorest kid in the class _mail_? If so, that seems like a pretty _childish_ prank. But, Renji doesn't put much past his classmates. Not the noble ones, anyway.

"Renji?"

With heart firmly lodged in his throat, Renji wades through the curious onlookers, and he prepares for the _worst_. "I am he," he says in his patented I-don't-give-a-fuck Rukon drawl. He can feign confidence like a damn pro.

"A package," the courier announces, handing over a finely wrapped parcel.

Renji glowers at the package. He doesn't quite know what to make of it. It feels light in his hands, and, as he stares down at the seal, he _feels_ everyone staring down with him. The whole room suddenly feels lopsided, as if it is _tilting_ toward him.

He ignores the burning of a thousand eyes against his back. He pretends not to notice the nobles breathing down his neck. He even pushes aside the sensation of being scrutinized as he studies the package.

An intricate family crest adorns the wrapping, but he is benighted when it comes to such things. Everyone else, however, instantly seems to know what the crest means. And, judging from the sudden eruption of gasps and the drop in air pressure, it seems to be a Big Fucking Deal to those _in the know_.

Furrowing his brow, he gives a clumsy nod of his head to the mail boy. "Thanks," he says, and he shrugs. "Who's it from?"

The courier suppresses a smile, but the onlookers are not as generous. A loud guffaw sweeps across the room, and he is sure that the new refrain of whispers is more caustic and censorious than the last.

He brushes it off with little shame, having slowly become accustomed to his startling lack of knowledge on everything Seireitei. If it wasn't for Izuru and Momo, he would wander the Academy in a constant cloud of confusion.

"It is the Kuchiki kamon that affixes this package, sir," the boy answers respectfully.

Renji feels each muscle spring back like loaded rubber bands ready to snap. His tongue swells in his mouth, and his breath blows cold and sharp against his throat. He can barely move. His limbs feel leaden, and his senses numb, making even walking difficult. He nearly drops the parcel as he tries to make his hands work properly.

_Why?_ It is the only word or thought he can muster in response. Why would Rukia send him _anything_? Has nobility turned her cruel, too?

Frowning deeply, he turns on his heel. His stomach churns as he moves toward his room, nearly mowing down his fellow students in the process.

Didn't Izuru say that Rukia _knew_ not to acknowledge him? She is in a different stratosphere now. A whole 'nother class.

_So, why? _Why this? Why now?

_Why bother?_

Reasons assail his brain as he shuts the door behind him. None of them is particularly _good_. Most of them are incredibly painful even to consider, and he has yet to peel back the wrapping.

"I should wait," he murmurs to himself as he stares into the folds of the packaging, searching for meaning hidden in the details. But, try as he might, he cannot turn his attention away from it. The intricate lines of the Kuchiki family crest beguile him, tempt him even.

Part of him wants to rip the seal off and shred it. Just the seal.

Another, _deeper_, part of him is horrified of what the package contains. Is it even from Rukia? Could it be from the family? Maybe it is some sort of waiver or contract?

"Open it," Izuru murmurs as he draws back the door.

Renji's head snaps up at the sound of his friend's voice.

"I heard the commotion," Izuru explains in an even tone. He holds open the door long enough for Momo to step through.

"You received mail from your friend!" she calls excitedly. She smiles so widely that her eyes squeeze shut.

Renji scowls as his friends move to his side. Momo stands at his left while Izuru takes his place on the right.

All eyes focus on the parcel.

"What do you think it is?" Renji asks, eying Izuru and then Momo.

"Why don't you open it?" Izuru repeats slyly.

"I'm sure it is nice," Momo says. Her eyes brighten with anticipation. Clearly, she thinks it is _good_ news. Of course, she would, Renji muses. Hope springs eternal for Momo.

Izuru, however, seems slightly more guarded as he inspects the package's dimensions. "Is there a card?" he inquires before Renji tears into the wrapping.

"Ugh?" Renji murmurs. How would he know? Are there _usually_ cards?

"Here," Momo says, releasing the Kuchiki kamon. "I think this is it," she murmurs, handing it to Renji.

Before anyone has a chance to inspect it, Renji loosens an edge of the packaging and rips it open. Smooth silk slides out, and his eyes go wide.

"A kimono," Izuru observes, approvingly.

"Very nice, Renji!" Momo says, catching the fabric before it drapes to the floor.

Renji observes it with a glare. Tension builds in his body and contorts the lines of his features. He doesn't know quite what to think and is quick to interpret the pressure building in his head as negative emotion. _Does she think she can buy me? What is this?_

"Rukia has very good taste," Momo compliments the design of the kimono. "The fabric is so luxurious."

"Rukia may have selected it," Izuru observes, plucking the card from Renji's grasp, "but it was the Lady's doing."

Renji shoots his friend a sidelong glance. "What does that mean?"

"Do you think that, after a day, Rukia would feel comfortable spending a great sum of money without a Kuchiki's blessing?" Izuru asks softly.

Renji turns to Izuru. His friend's look is probing but not condescending. Izuru asks the question in earnest.

Renji grimaces. "No," he responds. Of course not. Inuzuri made all of them thrifty to a fault.

"Do you think the gift is actually from the Lady?" Momo considers the idea. It doesn't seem too far-fetched at least from Momo's perspective.

"Most probably," Izuru says, proffering the card to Renji. "The invitation to tea, however, is _absolutely_ at the Lady's behest."

Renji stares uncomprehendingly at the characters painted in black on the card. _What?_ He cannot summon the intellect to interpret the words. Not at that very moment, at least.

"Tea!" Momo chirps, "How lovely. Lady Kuchiki is regarded as a very generous host."

Izuru lifts his head. "You have to go, Renji," he says matter-of-factly.

Renji stares at Izuru. His panic is clear, and, as it settles, he cannot find the words. Any words, really, to express himself.

"No getting around it," Izuru adds and musters a sympathetic look.

"You should wear your new robes," Momo encourages with a kind smile.

He _will_ _have to _wear his new robes. It's not like he has anything else. He certainly cannot go dressed in his uniform or, _worse yet_, his Rukon yukata.

"Of course," he murmurs to himself.

"Be careful, Renji," Izuru warns.

* * *

"Be careful, Lady Rukia," the steward cautions as they cross over a loose floorboard.

"Yes," she mumbles softly, keeping her head bowed low and her eyes trained on the ground. _Don't fall. Don't fall. Don't fall._ The words repeat inside her head in a never-ending loop. Yet, despite the chanting and despite knowing where the hazard lies, her footwear stubs the rickety board all the same.

_Damnit it!_

The steward is surprisingly adroit for his age, and he catches her. His knotty fingers wrap around the top of her arm. "It is treacherous," he says soothingly. With the patience of a saint, he waits for her to regain her equilibrium.

She fashions a self-deprecating smile and nods. "It is." How embarrassing.

"I will have it replaced immediately. No need for anyone harming themselves on account of it," he sighs to himself. Likely, it is just _one more thing_ to which the servant must attend, Rukia observes.

She feels a small wave of pity crest in her chest. "I don't believe I know your name," her voice deepens a little, rising above the whisper that she has set for herself. For some reason, she feels stifled by the sprawling manor. It seems so large, but so empty. Sound ricochets off the walls until its remnants become grander than its source. Every footfall makes an echo. Every word seems to penetrate deep into the manor as if the walls are made of thin sheets of tissue. Briefly, she wonders if the servants can _hear_ her _thoughts_. It seems entirely too plausible.

"Ah, I don't believe I have shared it," he says drily, and he flashes a small grin at her politeness. "You make call me Minamoto, milady." He bows his head deeply.

"Thank you, Mr. Minamoto." She repeats his name with a smile and bows.

He nods his head approvingly then turns his attention to the sprawling garden as they cross the outdoor walkway. "Lovely day," he notes.

"Yes," she agrees eagerly. Too eagerly.

The cherry and plum blossoms are spectacular. In fact, _all_ the spring flowers are in full bloom, creating a diverse palette of color. It is a breathtaking display yet she feels a restrained sort of joy as she sees it. If she were in Inuzuri, she would be biding her time until the moment presented itself, and she would escape into the floral sanctuary. But, then and there, she knows there will be no escaping or exploring. The garden is merely a pleasant backdrop unless someone tells her differently.

"The Lord and Lady have endeavored long and hard to revitalize the area," he observes as they slowly amble toward what is now Rukia's quarters.

"Oh?" she inquires, hoping he will indulge her. Any shred of information, no matter how small, soothes her. She doesn't know much about this foreign place, but she is willing to learn its secrets.

"Yes. After the current Lord's father and mother passed, the garden became rather dull. The past noble head rarely entertained or lodged at the manor during the later part of his tenor."

"Oh," Rukia says, trying to keep the steward talking.

"It was serene and tasteful then but lifeless in comparison to its present state."

She nods. "Does Sister garden?" She can't quite picture it in her head, but she mostly attributes that to her own inability at keeping plants alive for very long. The Gods know that she tried while in Inuzuri. It had been one of her many Grand Plans—to harvest and to sell fresh vegetables and fruit. The result? A few very brown, very unproductive sprouts of... _something?_

The steward stares at Rukia as if she has gone mad. "_Absolutely not_."

Great! Something she and her sister have in common: A black thumb. Good to know, she muses.

"Especially given her condition," he elaborates.

"Her condition?" Rukia echoes. She knows nothing of Hisana's _condition_. The observation sounds like an indictment of her _health_, but her sister has all the appearance of a salubrious woman. Her eyes are bright. Her hair is glossy and thick. Her skin is pale, true, but it appears to be an appropriate shade for a noblewoman. She is a bit thin, perhaps, but, then, so are all the noble females at the Academy. Starvation diets and such. Rukia doesn't understand it, herself. She gladly devours whatever food happens her way. Fruit, vegetables, rice, grain, meat—never even see her coming.

"Yes," he says, shooting Rukia a dark look. His voice goes quiet, and his cadence slows, "She is recovering nicely, however."

"What happened?" A wrinkle forms between Rukia's brows at the seriousness of the steward's tone. By the sound of it, it seems that her sister had been on death's door only a short while ago.

He gives a slow shake of his head. "In time, milady."

Rukia furrows her brow and glances nervously at the diverted stream. _'In time'?_ _What does that mean?_

"The House will become more open in time," he says, sliding back a panel to reveal a capacious room. "Your chambers."

Rukia stares into her new bedroom, stunned. "M-my-mine?" It is so large. Much larger than her Academy dorm-room and a hundred times nicer than any shelter she ever took in Inuzuri. She can hardly believe her eyes. Or her _luck_.

The steward nods. "Yes, milady. Your quarters." He waits for her to cross the threshold before entering and closing the door behind them. "You have your own bath and study as well," he says, drawing back various doors.

Shock flattens her expression as she watches him retract a closet door. "Your new kimono," he says, gesturing to the garments carefully arranged in the space.

"Yes," she nods, gratefully.

"There are few rules here," he says, pulling the door closed. "Dinner is prepared promptly at eight-o'-clock every night. When the Lord and Lady are in residence, they require absolute privacy unless an emergency arises."

Rukia tilts her head and stares questioningly at this.

Astutely reading her incredulous expression, the steward nods his head. "If you have business with Lord Kuchiki, you will need to schedule an appointment beforehand. I handle the scheduling of all Lord Kuchiki's social arrangements. Her Ladyship, however, insists that you are free to impose whenever you require her attention."

Rukia swallows. Hard. "Yes," she murmurs in a shaky breath. Suddenly the air becomes thick and hard to breathe. The idea of such formality begins to suffocate her, and it pulls at the threads of her own doubt. If these are the rules that he remembers to divulge, then what about all the rules that he assumes she already knows? Her eyes go wide at the very thought.

"Lady Kuchiki is often away on family business," he says, careful to unearth the flaw in his previous statement: If Hisana is away on duty, then Rukia cannot possibly impose _whenever _she desires. "And Lord Kuchiki is often unavailable due to family and division responsibilities."

"Of course," she says, nodding. Then, she immediately wracks her brain in a mad attempt at remembering _which division_ hosts Lord Kuchiki. _Nothing_. She comes up empty. Not a single clue.

"Your schedule is also very full for the time being."

Rukia flinches. Wait. What? _She has a schedule?_ Since _when_?

"You look surprised," he chuckles. "I take it Lady Kuchiki did not inform you of your duties?"

Rukia does not move. She stands perfectly still and perfectly dumbfounded.

He tucks his chin to his neck and gives her a fatherly onceover. "You have intensive tutoring this year before you assume a position at the Thirteenth."

Her brows lift in surprise. "The Thirteenth?" She nearly chokes on her own spit.

He nods. "Train hard and learn your lessons well, milady. In a year's time, you will take the officer's test, which will determine your rank at the Thirteenth."

"The Thirteenth?" she repeats again. Shell-shocked. She feels shell-shocked. Her stomach flutters, twists, and turns, and her brain begins to flicker. She can hardly believe it. She has not done _anything_ to deserve such a privilege. Nothing. She has not earned a place at the Thirteenth. If she were still at the Academy, she would have to claw and fight her way to a position among _any_ of the divisions. Yet, now, it is handed to her like a consolation prize. Congratulations! You're a Kuchiki. Here's your division assignment and a schedule. Figure it out.

"Your training commences at six-o'-clock tomorrow morning, beginning with kido."

She nods feverishly. "Yes. Kido." Kido is good. She likes kido. Actually, she is pretty talented at kido. First in her class.

"I will make sure you receive your weekly schedule in a timely manner. You will receive this week's schedule tonight."

"Thank you." She can barely focus on the words coming out of his mouth now. Her ears fill with static, and her heart thunders in her chest. Everything is so hard to process.

"If you require anything, do not hesitate to let any of the servants know."

"Yes, thank you."

He bows low. "Is there anything milady desires at the moment? Tea? Food?"

"Tea?" she asks, not quite knowing how to make a request. Is there a special incantation? A precise way to make an order? She hasn't the foggiest of ideas.

He smiles at her politeness. "Of course, milady."

* * *

"Of course it _had_ to start raining," Hisana giggles as she reaches for her husband. Clasping his hand in hers, she pulls him toward the outdoor walkway.

They are drenched to the bone. Sopping wet. Layers of expensive fabric cling indecently to their forms. Hair, inky and piecy, sticks to shoulders and cheeks. And, she laughs heartily at the sight of her patrician husband all out of sorts. He quickly takes shelter under the covered breezeway, and, without a second thought, he wrings his garments out.

No use, she observes. No use at all, and she shakes her head slightly. "Come here," she says and yanks him close against her. How quickly she forgets how much larger he is than she. Not until his body is nearly pressed to hers does she consider their differences.

She smiles brightly up at him as her hands travel from his arms to his sash. Her fingers bunch in the material as they start loosening the knot.

Realizing _what_ she is doing and, more importantly, _where_ they are, his hands fly down to hers. He stares at her questioningly, but either shock or propriety steels his tongue. However, she reads his unspoken sentiments loud and clear.

"We can't go inside dripping wet," she chuckles. "We will ruin the floors."

His eyes go wide, and his hands cup her own. His touch is restrained, but her fingers go still all the same.

"There is no one around," she whispers. Not a soul to see them. And he knows this. She is sure. But, propriety strangles him, binding him fast and tight. "No one will see us." She cocks a brow, silently urging him to relax.

His head arches slightly to the side. His gaze darts to the garden before making a pass over the walkway. Even if someone _was_ wandering the estate grounds, the rain pours down in such heavy sheets that it practically ensures their privacy.

Before he has a chance to protest, she pulls apart his knot. Feeling the slack in his robes, her smile widens. And, unexpectedly, her body responds to the sight of his silks parting freely.

"Hisana," he murmurs in a quiet gravel.

She can tell he is trying his best to summon his disapprobation, but his reserves are low. His voice, especially, fails to convince her. It wavers, and, as he drops his head down toward hers, she is sure she has won this particular battle of the wills.

Ignoring his pleading stare, she parts his robes, and, biting her bottom lip, her hands move to the next tether.

"This is improper," he scolds half-heartedly.

"Nothing I do is proper, milord," she murmurs teasingly and shoots him a wolfish glance. "I am a bad influence." The phrase is one of the Kuchiki elders' favorite ways to describe her character and her effect on their young lord. She recalls a _particular aunt_ howling those exact words at her only recently as she unknots another tie.

She doesn't mind it. Not at all. They are probably correct in their assessment of her—she is willful, stubborn, and brazen at times. It is their assessment of their Lord—as a young, gentle, naïve soul—where they could not be more mistaken.

Her hand glides under his under-robes, and she fixes him with a look. His skin is slick from the rain, but it is warm and smooth. Her smile dims as her palms glide up his chest and toward his broad shoulders. She loosens the silk adhering to his body, relishing the way his muscles shift against her small hands.

Reflexively, her fingertips sink into his flesh, and her heart starts in anticipation. Only a small tug and the silks will fall, she tells herself. Her lips part, and her breath hitches in her throat, but, before she can appreciate the sight of him, she feels his hands against her waist. He fumbles with her obi for a moment before pushing her against the outside wall of their bedroom. His lips catch hers.

Hungrily, she deepens the kiss while easing the wet fabric over his shoulders. "_This_ is improper," she teases him between breaths. His mouth, moist and hot, moves down her neck toward her clavicle, and she arches toward him. She knows her movements provoke him, and she throws back her head.

Lifting her slightly against the wall, he pins her. "You're a bad influence," he repeats her words sardonically back to her.

_Yes, I am_, she thinks as she feels his hands yank her layers of silk apart. She holds her breath, waiting for the spark of pleasure.

Somehow, someway, between fighting with the heavy wet silks and love-making, the two manage to find the dry warmth of the bed.

Spent with limbs tangled together, the couple basks in the warm oranges and reds of dusk as it floods into their bedroom through the partially opened door. Languidly, Hisana rests her head against his shoulder and absently draws small circles on his chest with her fingertips. She relishes the musky smell of her husband and the warmth of his arms around her. His muscles jump up if her touches become too light or fluttery, and she smiles to herself. A warm bubble of contentment rises in her chest. It has been so long, she thinks. Too long since she has experienced complete happiness.

Then it comes. The thoughts, noisy and unpleasant, begin to fill her head and dim her bliss. Closing her eyes, she searches for a distraction. Anything. "What is your schedule like tomorrow?" she asks. Her warm breath spreads across his broad chest, heating his skin.

He is perfectly still. His eyes are closed. His breathing is quiet. Not a stitch of emotion marks his face. He looks at peace. And, momentarily, she wonders if he is asleep. His heart, however, betrays him. She hears it skip a beat when she presses a kiss against his shoulder.

He opens his eyes with some effort, and he watches her with a bleary look. "I have tea with Jūshirō in the morning. In the afternoon, I have a patrol, and then…" He doesn't say it. Perhaps he can't bring himself to think it after today, but she knows what his intention is all the same. He will train for hours with Senbonzakura. She frowns at the unspoken sentiment. His trainings have become more frequent and more brutal as of late, and she worries for his sake.

"_And then_ dinner with your wife," she subverts his meaning with a bright smile.

Byakuya glances down at her. His eyes are soft and quiet. No sadness or pain lingers in his stare now that she returns to her old healthy self. But, she can tell that he is searching her, looking for signs of illness and traces of his family's treachery. Satisfied with whatever he finds or doesn't find, he tucks her head under his chin, and he inhales a deep breath. "Your day tomorrow?" he asks in a choppy shorthand.

"I have a meeting with Sir Shiba and Lord Shihōin. Then, I have tea with _your aunt_. Afterward, I have tea with my sister, and—"

"A meeting with the Shiba and the Shihōin?" he echoes.

She can tell by the way that his body shifts against hers that she has some explaining to do. "Yes," she says, fighting back the urge to _flinch_, "we are meeting to discuss a _renovation _project. If it turns out to be worth the effort, we might draw up a proposal to present at the next meeting of the Five Families."

He inhales a deep breath, and she knows he is parsing her words in an attempt to extract her exact meaning. By the even deeper exhalation, she knows that he is dissatisfied with her purposefully evasive language. "A renovation project?" he murmurs incredulously.

He does not believe her. Not for a second. But, he has no testable hypothesis as to _what _she intends to do, which means he will dissect every word that slips from her lips.

"To revitalize parts of the Rukon districts," she replies, turning her head so she can better see him. He watches her with an apprehensive if not slightly bemused expression.

"And you are seeking investments from the Konoe and Takatsukasa clans?"

Doesn't even attempt to hide the fact that he is skeptical of her purposes, she observes ironically to herself. But, the question is a valid one: Why else would she make a proposal at the meeting if not to elicit financial support?

"Perhaps."

His brows rise at this, and he smirks at her. "It is unlikely that the Takatsukasa will be moved by your pleas to noblesse oblige."

She is swift to capitalize on his omission. "But you think the Konoe Family will?"

His eyelids droop upon observing the enterprising look that flashes across her visage. "If Tadahiro is present, perhaps." Byakuya's expression goes cold, and his body tenses as he contemplates the possibility more deeply. His eyes, once so warm and gentle, become sharp and piercing as he stares into the dusk. "Be careful making arrangements with him, Hisana."

She is sure she feels his arms tighten around her as he speaks, and she is certain that it is subtle reflex on his part. But, his subtle reflexes expose more than words ever could. "Yes, milord," she murmurs against his chest.


	5. The Unspoken Verses

**Summary:** Byakuya trains Rukia. Rukia catches glimpses of the Kuchiki Family's history of violence. Renji takes tea at the Kuchiki estate.

* * *

**The Unspoken Verses**

Between strokes of her brush, Hisana catches it. Or rather, she catches its _absence_ as her husband sits perfectly still. Unmoving. Not a trace of noise besmirches him. Not even the _potential_ for movement. He would be perfectly positioned if he were sitting for a portrait. But, he isn't, and she wonders if he is even breathing, he goes so quiet.

Two then three then ten seconds pass, and there he sits. His fingers are wrapped around his teacup. His eyes are fixed and wide. He holds his breath tightly in his throat, and his lips part, but only slightly.

He dons the expression of _mortification_. Total. Molecular. Mortification. Cannot move, not an inch.

She raises a brow at this. Rarely, is he so engrossed in something that he finds so horrific. Is there a rabid animal a stone's throw from the property that is snacking on some cute woodland creature? Has a servant gone mad, leaving her husband to sort out the details? Did someone _die_?

So beseeched by curiosity, she leans back slightly and peeks into the garden through the open door. She frowns deeply.

No. There are no rabid animals. No crazed servants. No dying souls. It is just her sister going over sword positions with her bokken.

She turns surreptitiously to her husband, repressing the urge to roll her eyes. _He cannot be serious_. Yet, the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach tells her that he is. _So pedantic._

Inwardly, she groans to herself before slipping away for a moment. He doesn't even notice her absence, he is so appalled. When she returns, she pours on the sweet like an endless honeypot.

"If you don't like her technique," she begins, leaning over his shoulder, "then help her." As if by magic, a spare bokken appears in front of him.

He turns to her. His eyes are wide and his look probing. A question etches its way across his face: _Are you sure? _

"Go on," Hisana urges with a smile. "She will be flattered. _Horrified_ but flattered."

Hisana knows Rukia watches Byakuya with a mixture of fear and respect. Worse, for the last _week_, the two have not spoken. Not a single word. Although, now that she thinks on it, perhaps they have _never_ spoken. At least, Hisana cannot remember Byakuya saying anything during his encounters with Rukia. Not that Rukia would let him. She would have flittered away before he had the chance.

Which brings Hisana to consider a simple question: _What have the servants said about their Lord?_ She has no doubt that Rukia's apprehension is sparked, in part, by the servants' advice. No telling what she's been told. Hisana is certain there are stories about her husband that could scare the fur off a mountain lion.

Not that those stories are _particularly accurate_. They all seem to begin and to end the same way—with her husband upset and then proceeding to brutally annihilate whatever got in his way. However, when he and those who were actually involved tell the tales, Hisana cannot help but notice that spectators and friends-of-friends have a nasty habit of stripping the context and details aside to make him sound so much _worse _and _intimidating_.

And, while_, true_, her husband is not in contention for Soul Society's Mr. Congeniality award, he isn't a _monster_ either. Byakuya is _polite_ if only a little formal about it.

Hisana smiles down at him and nods her approval. "It's alright," she says soothingly before squeezing his shoulder.

With some reticence, he stands, but, as he turns, she tells that he will only do it at her urging. And her urging she gives. Freely.

Sparring is probably the best way to break the ice between the two. She just hopes nothing else gets broken. Like bones. Or priceless antiques.

He gives a resolute nod of his head. _You asked for this_, his expression seems to say, warningly. Then, he crosses through the door and into the garden. "Rukia?" she hears him call.

As quick as her hands will allow her, she grabs up her expense reports and invoices, and drags the paperwork to her husband's sitting mat. With eager eyes, she watches the interaction.

Rukia is all fluttery lines and movements, like snow pulled along on an errant wind. Byakuya, however, seems very calm and restrained as he approaches her. Hisana can't quite hear the words. The wind picks up, and its howl, along with the susurrus of leaves beating back and forth, prevent her from eavesdropping.

Her attempt at reading lips goes even worse. With her husband's back turned toward her, she cannot see his lips, and Rukia freezes like a rabbit spotting a wild dog. The blood rushes out of Rukia's face, and her body goes stiff. She nods, however, after a few seconds, and she waits as if she is listening to his instruction.

Hopefully, she _heeds_ his instructions, Hisana muses, feeling her stomach clench at the thought. She has never seen her husband tutor another, and the very idea seems a little unfathomable to her at first, but he proves himself quite nicely.

After the first maneuver, Rukia lands solidly on her back. A loud slapping _thud _tells Hisana that the impact likely knocked the wind out of her sister. Hisana then hears some of her husband's instruction. It's all meaningless words to her, however. She takes pride in remaining solidly out of the loop on all things pertaining to the Gotei 13. Well, _mostly_ out of the loop. She does keep up with the ever-changing roster of Captains, Vice Captains, and so-and-so seats merely so she can _interpret_ her husband's stories. It only _slightly_ helps that many of the so-and-so-seats, Captains, and Vice Captains are nobles with whom she corresponds frequently. Most of the Shinigami from Rukongai and almost the _entire_ Eleventh Division, however, remain a mystery to her.

Rukia corrects her first mistake, and _does not_ land on her back on the second try. Her second error, however, drops her to a knee.

Hisana hears her sister's apologies and cringes slightly. Byakuya will not like that, she thinks to herself. He always hates it when she apologizes for nothing. A nasty habit that, apparently, she and her sister share.

As predicted, she can hear him ask Rukia if she apologizes to opponents on the field of battle. This garners him a wide-eyed stare from her sister.

_No, Lord Byakuya_. Hisana sighs wryly. _Rukia has never seen a battlefield_. At least, not a _formal_ one.

He answers his own question with a forceful, "No."

Rukia smarts at this and her eyes dart over to the house, as if she is considering whether it would be prudent to run and to grab a pen and paper to write down all the things that she does not know. But, Byakuya will not have any of that. Not when he has _so many_ issues to fix.

Again, they try the maneuver. Again, Rukia improves slightly, but, she falls prey to another technical error.

Rinse. Repeat.

Fall. Rise.

Hisana watches intently, happy that her sister's resolve does not break. She is also _delighted_ that her husband is appropriately forceful but gentle with Rukia. His critique is pointed when she fails, but his praise is swift when she succeeds.

The training continues until Rukia is pale, soaked in sweat, and fighting to keep her herself vertical. She does not ask for permission to stop, however. Byakuya ends it, likely perceiving her fatigue and her stubbornness. He helps her up and brushes the grass and petals from her back.

She bows deeply, eager to convey how grateful she is that he has taken the time to assist her. He nods his head, and the two part ways.

When he returns to Hisana, she smiles sweetly up at him. "Thank you, Lord Byakuya," she murmurs.

He halts, half-in and half-out of the room. He turns to her questioningly. _For what?_ his eyes seem to ask.

"Your kindness to my sister is kindness to me."

* * *

Rukia hobbles back to her quarters. Everything hurts, from her _hair_ down to the joints in her toes. Even her neurons cry out in anguish in her head; although, she doesn't know if they cry because her body aches or because they have trouble processing what just occurred. Had her brother-in-law _helped_ her? Really? Did that really happen? It wasn't some sort of fever dream?

Her wobbly muscles tell her the truth: Yes, _the _Lord of the House came out of the manor and _trained _her. The same Lord of the House who requires an _appointment_ before he will deign to meet with anyone.

It feels surreal to say the least, and Rukia cannot help but wonder if it was at her sister's behest. The same sister that does not require an appointment, but who is just as unavailable as her husband is.

Rukia smiles to herself. She imagines that she would be no different than Hisana if she had been flung into wifedom at the side of a nobleman. The house is unbearably oppressive when Hisana is absent, and, when she is there, it takes concerted effort to keep the atmosphere lively and engaging. Even when Hisana succeeds, it seems like there are certain family members waiting in the wings to pounce on her for some reason or another.

_Fun-suckers_, Rukia coined the term a few days ago in reference to the elders. The house is full of them. The biggest offender is Lord Kuchiki's aunt, Masuyo. A shrew if there ever was one.

Lord Kuchiki, however, does not appear to face the same level of opposition or scrutiny, and Rukia wonders why as she sits at her writing desk. The obvious reason is because he is the true heir, born with the title. But, would the family go easier on Hisana if she was a true heiress of a noble family? Probably not. Although, being common certainly doesn't _help_.

Rukia grimaces as she fishes inside her desk for her weekly schedule.

"Lady Rukia?" her female body servant calls before knocking at the door.

"Yes, please," she replies, still searching for the scrap of paper.

"Dinner, milady," the servant announces as she brings in a dish of rice, steamed vegetables, and boiled fish. "Is it to your liking?"

Rukia nods distractedly. Still trying to find her schedule.

"The Lord takes his meals very spicy, but he thought you would prefer sweeter food, like her Ladyship," the servant states. She sets a smaller dish for herself, and, she places a bit of each item on the dish, which she consumes politely in front of Rukia.

Rukia watches this odd behavior. It began from the day that she entered the manor. The servants always set a small spare plate, and, almost ritualistically, they consume a bite of each item of the dish.

It is _strange_, but she assumes it is some sort of tradition.

"I can do it before I bring you the dish," the servant notes, astutely.

Rukia's brows pop up. "Oh, no. I am sorry," she murmurs meekly, "it is just," her voice trails as she orders her words. "I don't understand the custom, is all." She doesn't mind, really. But, she hopes and assumes the servants are fed beyond the plates of their masters and mistresses.

The servant's brows knit together at her lady's confusion. "Ever since The Scouring, the Lord requires it for the Lady and, now, for you."

Rukia hears the servant, but her mind is stuck on a thought, and it won't unstick. "The Scouring?" she echoes. What does that mean? Sounds like some sort of historical event, but Rukia has never run across its mention in any of her textbooks.

The servant turns her head. Her gaze flies to the door where it stays. Nervously, she bites her lip as if toying with which words to use.

"Close it," Rukia whispers, and the servant is all too eager to oblige.

In a hushed voice, the girl leans conspiratorially close to Rukia. Her breath, warm and smelling of jasmine tea and honey, ghosts across Rukia's ear. "Over a year ago, the Lord discovered a plot against the Lady."

Rukia's eyes widen and she stifles the gasp ready to explode up from her chest. _What_?

"Yes, certain elders and rival clansmen were involved in an attempt to poison the Lady. She nearly died," the servant's words rush out and tangle together, but Rukia understands them nonetheless. "T'was horrible. Simply ghastly to see the Lord and Lady so hopeless. They had begun funeral preparations," she says as if she is reliving the dreadfulness all over again.

Rukia gawks at this. "What?" Her sister was almost _murdered_? It is too hard to believe. No wonder Brother cloisters Sister when he returns home. He nearly lost her.

"Fortunately, the Lord learned of the scheme before it was too late. Those involved were rightly put to a painful death at the Lord's hands."

Rukia's astonishment locks all of her facial muscles in torsion. So, his family attempted to kill Hisana, and he _executed_ the ones involved. _Himself?_

"It was a sordid ordeal. As you can imagine, milady. Horribly sordid. There was talk of a Schism. Half of the nobility was divided. We lost old Houses. We gained new Houses. Those involved included not only family members but doctors, nurses, servants, and rival clansmen, some of whom were Shinigami."

"What?" Rukia blurts out. "Why?"

The servant shrugs. "Classism, I suppose. Allegedly, his family wanted her dead before she had the chance to produce an heir. They would not abide the head of the family being born of common blood. Other ambitions, too, were surely at play."

"What ambitions?"

The servant glances back at the door, and she stirs. Likely, she has to be somewhere, tasked with another duty, and she is late. It is also entirely too possible, _now_, that she detects someone or _something_ lurking just outside. "Later," she murmurs, thinking better of it. "But, mind the shadows, Lady Rukia. And, mind them well."

Stunned, Rukia stares down at her food and grimaces. She suddenly lacks an appetite.

Just as Rukia hears the wooden "clack" of the door sliding shut, her finger brush against the familiar texture of her schedule. She clenches the paper in her hand and reads her agenda for tomorrow.

"Kido in the morning, then hakuda, then," her voice stops and her breath hitches in her throat. She can hardly believe her eyes. "Tea with Mr. Renji Abarai." A large smile breaks across her face, and she sighs a breath of relief.

She has _so much_ to tell _him_.

* * *

Renji stands, staring awkwardly ahead and trying just as awkwardly to find something, _anything_, to look at for the time being. Nothing. Not even a damn bauble. The Kuchiki manor is large, spacious, and completely _zen_. So, as it was, Renji trains his gaze to the floor. The placement of tatami is enough to occupy him until the _servant_ comes to _collect him_.

_Servants_.

He can hardly believe it. The idea still strikes him as intensely _odd_. Why does anyone need a _servant_? Especially someone who has so _much_? Is life really that hard when you have money and power? The folks slumming it in Inuzuri might need _servants_. Or parents. Or just the basics like food and water.

He probably will never understand it. He just hopes that his two-day crash course on etiquette will suffice and that Rukia has not transformed into some sort of entitled brat. It has only been a week, he reminds himself.

It feels so much longer.

Feeling his pulse throb in his throat, he shifts nervously in his new robes. They are hot. So hot. The silk is great at catching his body heat and cranking it up to eleven. Agitated, he thumbs his collar slightly. Anything to release the warmth that threatens to cook him alive, and he exhales a shaky breath.

No wonder the nobles are all such pricks. The garments alone are enough to drive someone to murder.

"Mr. Abarai?" a wizened man calls. His voice creaks like old pine rustling in the breeze, and it takes Renji a moment to realize that he is _Mr. Abarai_.

"Ah, yeah," he croaks, shooting up to his feet. "I am he." He cringes at his own eagerness. Two seconds and he is already flailing like the Rukon dog everyone expects him to be.

The attendant, however, is unfazed. "Follow me," he says in a slow cadence.

The old man leads him into the manor. It is deep and sprawling and the floors shine as if they all have been freshly waxed. Renji feels guilty for even stepping across the hardwood in his socks, so he moves as lightly as he can.

The servant pauses before a door, and he taps his knuckle quietly against the wooden frame. "Milady."

"Enter," a small feminine voice calls. It's timbre, however, is mostly eclipsed by the rice paper and wood.

"Yes, milady," he says, drawing back the door. "You may enter, sir," he says, bowing.

Carefully, Renji steps across the threshold, and, forcing his eyes from the floor, he glances across the room. There she is. The familiar soft lines, dark hair, pale skin, and large eyes that he remembers so well.

And, yet, _silence_.

She does not glance up at him. Instead, some strange papers absorb her attention, and she is writing something across the top of one of the sheets.

His stare hardens.

She does not say a word.

"A week goes by and this is how you treat me?" he huffs, planting his hands firmly on his hips.

Immediately, she lifts her head. "Excuse me?" she murmurs, locking eyes with him.

_Shit!_

His tongue swells in his mouth, and his throat goes dry. "L-La-Lady Kuchiki?" he sputters before dropping to his knees in a low bow. How could he have forgotten? Rukia and her sister look _so much alike_. He should have at least _verified_ before speaking so brusquely. "Please, my apologies, Lady Kuchiki. I thought—"

"Oh my," she says, eyes growing large. A small wry grin thins her lips as she leans forward. "You are chastising me one moment and apologizing to me the next," she says teasingly. "You must be Renji Abarai."

He lifts his head slightly, only enough to see her through his hair. "Yes," he stammers.

Her grin widens into a smile, and she sets her writing brush to the side. "Rukia has told me _all about you_." She shoots him an insinuating look.

Oh, Gods. What horrible stories has Rukia told her sister? Quickly, Renji goes through his mental inventory, scrutinizing old memories for any modicum of impropriety. Every single one of them merits criminal charges. Did they not do anything _legal_ while in Inuzuri? Any of them?

"Oh," he musters. His voice trembles like a leaf in a windstorm.

She nods politely. "Please, sit," and she waves her hand in front of her. "Would you like some tea?" Before he has a chance to answer, she very gracefully pulls back the sleeve of her kimono and tilts the teapot forward. Instantly, the room floods with the fragrance of green tea and jasmine, and he sucks in a deep perfumed breath.

"Please forgive Rukia," Lady Kuchiki starts, handing him the tea bowl, "I have been apprised that one of her tutors detained her. It should not last very long, I hope."

He glances around the room. _Oh yeah. Rukia wasn't there_. He was so angry and then _shocked_ and then _mortified_ that he had completely forgotten to feel indignant that Rukia wasn't even there.

"But you are correct, Mr. Abarai. I was remiss when I failed to acknowledge you. You see, I have to calculate these financial proposals for the family, and they get very complex. Sometimes I forget what I am doing, and propriety just flies right out the window," she says in a canorous voice—the type of voice that Renji could listen to all day.

"No," he says and shakes his head.

She pours herself a cup of tea, and, with the type of devious look that he thought only Rukia could muster, she says, "Tell me all about yourself, Mr. Abarai." She leans forward, smiling, and she purrs with soft voice and intimate suggestions, "I want to know _everything_ about _everything_."

She grabs his attention with a look, and she pulls him in with soft eyes and a warm smile.

In an instant, Renji knows what a bird must feel when a cat outplays it.

* * *

"Oh, no!" Rukia cries when she realizes the time. "Tea!" Impatiently, she taps her foot, waiting for her next assignment. _Sure, sure, sure._ Nod. Nod. Nod.

Anything just to get out of there and _flee_. She has been dying to see Renji all day. It has been so long. Or, rather, it _feels_ so long.

Quickly she writes down her tutor's prescription for her many _weaknesses_, and she is gone. Time to practice her flash-step, she tells herself. One thing she can cross off her To Do List.

_He is going to be so mad at me!_ _Livid!_ She cannot even _imagine_ how pissed he was when he arrived to find only her sister. _Absolutely livid!_ She only hopes that he didn't say something incriminating about them. Although, her sister seems to understand Inuzuri and Rukongai. She might not be the _absolute worst_ person to regale with stories of their less than savory behavior. Briefly, she wonders if her sister has any stories.

_Probably_.

Breathless, she tears into the manor in the quickest but most lady-like manner that she can think of. She pants as she pulls back the door, and she bends slightly at the hip, hoping that it will help her catch her breath.

_Laughter_. Harsh shrill laughter fills her ears.

"Well, he didn't know that the cooker was _operational_," Renji says.

_Oh gods,_ Rukia's thoughts blare. Not the Noodle Incident. Anything but the Noodle Incident. That was a crime, through and through. "Renji," she says tersely, hoping it will settle him.

He stares up at her, bemused. "Rukia," he says, nodding. "So nice of you to _join_ us," he teases.

"Rukia," Hisana says ebulliently, as if Rukia is the only person in the whole world, "Mr. Abarai was telling me _all about_ your adventures with your friends."

_Hilarious_.

Rukia shoots him a dark stare as she crosses the room to the cushion set at her sister's side. "Yeah, we got into all sorts of trouble," she mutters under her breath.

"Sounds like it," Hisana giggles into the sleeve of her robes. "You never mentioned your friends." Her sister sounds a little hurt at this.

_They're all dead,_ Rukia cannot help but think to herself. _I guess the tales seem less funny when they're all dead._ She realizes that she isn't like Renji in that way. He can honor his friends through raucous storytelling. She can't. She can only perseverate on all the pieces that she has lost, ripped away from her forever. In that regard, her happiness has turned to ash. Small grave markers fashioned out spare parts memorialize her childhood whimsy. It is the only evidence, the only remnants, of what was once her youth.

Her lips twist to the side, and she drops her head. "Renji does the stories better justice," she says, prevaricating.

Renji's expression darkens, and he nods absently to himself.

Hisana reads the situation well and avoids the obvious question. "Renji tells me that he will graduate from the Academy in a year," she notes, happily. "You two will be a part of the same entering class of Shinigami recruits."

Renji's head bobs up. "You still going to be a Shinigami, Rukia?" He sounds genuinely _surprised_.

"Yeah," she mumbles, giving him a sidelong stare. _What else would she be?_

"You could do all sorts of things, Rukia," Hisana observes. "You could become one of those court ladies." Her sister's voice sounds bladed, as if she does not approve of such a fate even though she acknowledges its option.

Rukia would never be a _court lady_. That much is clear. She couldn't imagine taking embroidery lessons all day. Or studying archery. Or proper wifely etiquette.

Hisana and Renji grin at her expression.

"So what division?" Renji asks, tilting his head to the side.

"The Thirteenth," Rukia replies proudly. A little too proudly considering what she knows about the Thirteenth can be summed up on two fingers: The Captain is Jushiro Ukitake, and the Vice Captain is Kaien Shiba. She has never formally met either of these men. She isn't sure if she's even _seen_ either of these men. She imagines that she has probably met Kaien Shiba at one of the Academy events. But, she doubts she could pick him out of a lineup. "Yours?" she asks belatedly.

Renji shakes his head. "Don't know yet. Assignments go out shortly before we graduate."

"That sounds so exciting, Mr. Abarai. Now, tell me, how do the assignments go?"

"Matching based on interest and need. It sounds pretty random for the most part."

Hisana nods. "Oh."

"Were you not a Shinigami, Sister?" Rukia asks, glancing up at Hisana. It never occurred to her that Hisana might not have been among the ranks. She _assumed_ that was how Hisana met Byakuya; it appears to be the easiest route from Rukongai to Seireitei, and her sister's reiatsu seems comparable to her own. But, Rukia has never asked, and it has never come up. Until now.

Hisana shakes her head. "Oh, no. I know nothing of the Academy and the ways of the Shinigami-class other than what my husband tells me."

"Lord Kuchiki is good a source of knowledge," Renji says politely.

Rukia, however, has to repress the urge to roll her eyes. _Really, Renji?_ She has a niggling feeling that flattery will not get him anywhere in the House of Kuchiki.

Hisana flashes an easy smile. "I would hope so," she chuckles. "We have tomes of Soul Society's and the Academy's history going back to the beginning of _time_. He claims to have read them _all_. I don't believe it," she says ironically.

Renji's brows jump up at this and he grins. "Lord Kuchiki is poised to take over the Sixth; is that right?"

"Yes," Hisana manages with a restrained smile. The slight twitches at the corner of her lips tell Rukia that her sister is stifling a frown. "Are you interested in the Sixth?"

Renji's grin grows. "I am interested in any division that will have me."

_Untrue_, Rukia thinks to herself. She remembers Renji going on and on and on about Captain Aizen and Vice Captain Ichimaru. She's fairly sure that Renji's friends, Momo and Izuru, are also interested in the Fifth. But, the Sixth isn't far from the Fifth if it doesn't work out for him. "What about the Thirteenth?" she pipes up, shooting him a wry glance.

"Ugh, that sounds nice, too." He draws back defensively as if he is anticipating Rukia to hurl some sort of haughty look his way. "Do you have your rank yet?"

Rukia shakes her head. "I take the officer's test with the Academy's graduating class."

He nods, approvingly.

"You two should practice together," Hisana says, eying the two with a gentle look. "Rukia is very proficient in kido, I hear," she adds with a wink.

"Good, I am _not_," Renji remarks with a sigh.

"I can help out!" Rukia says, lifting her head. "We can study together next summer for our exam."

Apprehensively, he gives Hisana a nervous look, as if he is asking her permission. She nods her head in response. "Sounds perfect." Her lips part as if she is going to expound, but a knocking noise silences her.

"Lady Kuchiki?" It is the steward who calls her, which means the matter is _official_ and _pressing_. Rukia has learned which servants deliver _which types_ of notices. The female body servants come when there are social letters and invitations or to inform them when dinner or tea is served. The steward only comes when it is a matter that carries some degree of importance.

"Enter," Hisana replies.

"It regards the upcoming meeting. Lady Masuyo requires your presence."

"Thank you." Hisana's expression darkens for a stroke, but she recovers nicely. "Please excuse me," she says graciously before beginning toward the door. "It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Abarai. I hope to see you at the upcoming festival." Halting at the door, she smiles brightly at the pair. "Stay as long as you wish. Just don't _burn _the place down," she states drolly, and she bows slightly before departing.

He nods, watching her leave. "She's so lovely," he murmurs, approvingly.

Rukia glares at him. "_What_?" Did he really say that? Did he ogle her sister _in front of her_? What nerve!

"She's lovely. You are so lucky to have such a nice sister," he expands his meaning, staring at her with a wide-eyed look of innocence. There are no dark, lusty intentions dancing behind his eyes.

Rukia swallows her umbrage and presses her lips together into a straight line. She won't say it out loud, but she feels contented to see Renji, and she is grateful that her sister seems to _approve_ of their friendship.

She could not _imagine_ residing in that lonely expansive manor without hope of friendship beyond its walls. That would be too much to bear. "So what is going on with your eyebrows?" she asks, leaning forward to brush the black … _stuff…_ off his brow. To her great dissatisfaction, it does not smudge. No, in fact, it seems indelible.

"It is permanent," he notes, wryly.

"Why?" she asks and quirks a brow.

He stares at her heatedly. "For my achievements!"

"So you screw up your face when you do _well_?"

His eyes harden. "I did not _screw up my face_, and what do you care anyway?"

Rukia shrugs. "I just don't want to see you wind up all alone for the _rest of your life_, and screwing up your face seems to be a sure fire ticket to spinsterhood."

"Men don't become spinsters," he quips back.

"They'd make an exception for you," she teases.

He stops for a moment to observe her.

She can't quite read the expression gleaming in his eyes, but she thinks he is happy. "So you passed that test."

He nods, eagerly. "Yeah, I am set to graduate on time."

She smiles. "That is so exciting."

"You becoming a member of the Thirteenth is _exciting_. Me passing is," he shrugs, "good for me."

Rukia purses her lips and cocks a brow. "Don't be humble, Renji. It doesn't suit you."

He shakes his head at her deprecating tone. "Are you going to the Cherry Blossom Festival?" he asks, clearly remembering the stray comment that her sister made before leaving.

Rukia's lips pull to the side, and she shrugs. "Maybe? If the family doesn't cram something into my schedule by then."

"You should come. You can meet Momo and Izuru. You'd like them."

She smiles at this. It is the first genuinely heartfelt smile she has worn since entering the manor. "Sounds like a deal."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Thanks for reading and reviewing!

**Rose Attack: **Thanks! Updates are frequent thanks to a small (tiny) break I have that coincides with being bedridden for a few days. As for the AO3 v FFN differences: Sometimes I have different versions of the chapters, and I am fond of both so I post both. (Substantively, I don't think they differ.) The last chapter, for instance, I was playing more with the POV characters' different voices for the one posted on FFN (e.g., Renji's scene got a pretty big makeover.) The AO3 version seems a little more clinical in comparison. As for Hisana, I think her role in the House and how she wields her power as a noblewoman will become a source of a lot of problems for her and the other characters. (At least, if I stick with my outline.)

**Sunev.31:** Thanks so much! Good catch with Tadahiro! He will definitely pop back up soon-ish, and his role will be expanded on. I would say, at this moment in the story, Byakuya's personal issues with him outweigh Hisana's initial reservations.


	6. Part II: Progress & Adaption

**Part II: Progress & Adaption**

_From among the peach-trees_

_"Blooming everywhere," _

_The first cherry blossoms._

_ –__Matsuo Basho_

* * *

**_A year later…_**


	7. The Body Political

**Summary:** Byakuya tutors Rukia to the detriment of the manor. A Kuchiki elder discusses Hisana's subversive nature. Rukia receives her rank, and, in her excitement, sees something she should not have seen. Renji makes an interesting observation.

* * *

**The Body Political**

The teacup is warm against her hands. Hands that have been chilled from the cool morning breeze of autumn's air. Bleary eyes, stinging with sleep, skim over the top of the cup and look through the white wisps of steam that rise from the tea. A few long meters away, her sister and her husband are training with kido.

_It is too early._

How their complex musculature manages to _function _before daybreak stumps her. She can barely _blink_, and her brain is still trying to convince her to retreat into the bed. The nice _warm_ bed.

Hisana shifts under the heavy blanket that she wraps around her shoulders, and she takes a long sip of the tea. It burns her tongue before blazing its way down her throat. Its warmth heats her entire chest, and she holds another swallow, letting the hotness imbue her.

_Better_.

But, not _great_.

For a moment, she has clarity. Her eyes begin to focus; the images are no longer blurry and doubled. _Another sip_. Her heart picks up the pace, pumping energy across her tired body. After another mouthful, she feels somewhat revived, and she stares ahead.

Her husband yells something at her sister and shoots Rukia a heated stare.

Rukia sinks down slightly, as if admitting fault, before setting up the maneuver again. She is resolute, and her resoluteness seems to please Byakuya.

Hisana takes her eyes off the pair for a moment to stare down into her tea bowl, and…

_CRASH_.

Byakuya deflected one of Rukia's spells, sending a burst of reiatsu careening off course and colliding into the house. The spell crackles and singes the air and the wood. A plume of dust and smoke billows from a wall, and the smells of scorched earth and sulfur fill her lungs.

Hisana's eyes go wild, and she lets out a dry cough, suffocating on the thick black cloud.

An electric blast sears down her spine, and she has to concentrate on whether it is from her shock or the attack. With breath coldly clenched in chest, her eyes shift to the side to see a large hole where there once was wall only a few meters from her left shoulder.

"Antiques!" she cries out in a panic.

Both her husband and sister wheel around to her. Rukia is breathless, and her cheeks flush from embarrassment. When she meets her sister's pale, confused face, she instantly goes rigid and slinks down like a guilt-ridden dog.

Byakuya, however, examines Hisana with great concern. Astutely, his eyes read each line of her face and every contour of her body until he is satisfied that no harm has come to her. When he finishes his inspection, he cocks a brow as if to say, '_Really?'_

"The house _is_ an antique!" Hisana teases back at his unspoken question.

She gives an exaggerated shake of her head and peels herself up from the floor. _Better notify the servants_. _ It will take some time to locate a proper contractor and to have the damage repaired_, she thinks to herself. They will need to place a tarp or _something_ over the hole in the wall in the meanwhile—anything to hide the mess and to protect what remains of the room.

After alerting the steward, who seemed to be in a state of great distress at hearing the commotion, she takes refuge inside her quarters. _Not going to become kindling today,_ she muses to herself. Not when she has such an important meeting with the Five Families.

A small desk stationed in the corner of her room provides an adequate sanctuary for her thoughts. She sits pensively, staring at the wall across from her. _Repose, Hisana_. Her heart, however, defies her inner thoughts and decides to buzz in her chest like an angry hornet.

Closing her eyes, she attempts to refocus. Never has she felt this nervous or this uncertain about _anything_. Normally at the annual meeting of the Five Families, she sits quietly and agrees with the Kuchiki elders. She is merely an ornament. Nothing more. Nothing less.

_He won't be there._

The thought and its implications prove treacherous. Her heart stops hard in her chest. So hard that it shoots vibrations throughout her entire system. It is a _first_—her husband will not attend the meeting today. He has division business, or so he tells her.

She wonders if he is merely providing an _opportunity_ to prove her mettle as Lady Kuchiki. The thought has crossed her mind for the last few weeks, but she has never questioned her husband. She never would. If he believes in her, then she should as well. It is his lesson for her.

A very hard lesson, at that.

Suddenly, she appreciates the fact that she leans on him so much during those meetings. He is always so steady, so constant. She wonders what she would do without him. Now, especially, since she has become Lady Kuchiki, the mere thought of the deprivation that his loss would cause in her seems _unbearable_.

She shudders, but no amount of blankets will save her from the icy hand of doubt. Her fraying nerves spool out even further when she considers the family's likely opposition to the proposal. How long, exactly, they have been planning this sabotage? She can only guess. But, rumors of private meetings with other clan heads have a grain of truth. Not that she didn't think the family would find way to irrevocably injure her plans.

In a moment, her entire body eases. An assuaging gust pulls at the taut strings of her muscles until they come undone. She inhales an easy breath, and she smiles.

As expected, the door _cracks_ back, and he enters.

Observing the perspiration prickling at the sides of his face, she smiles knowingly. "You're sweating." It is a first for her sister.

"Rukia is improving," he observes, stopping an arm's length from her before offering her his hand.

He hates her quarters. He cannot abide it. Never once have they taken a meal or tea in that room. She cannot remember them sharing the room even to rest. He only comes to collect her when he is away because she refuses to occupy his quarters without his presence or without purpose.

Briefly, she wonders why he dislikes the room so much, but she pushes the thought away as she takes his hand. "You have a Super Secret meeting today," she notes. A wry grin lengthens her lips, and she eyes him slyly. For all the assurances that he cannot make the Meeting of the Five Families, he has never expanded on what this meeting at the Sixth entails.

His brows rise at her look. "You have a proposal today to make in Chambers," he deflects.

The pair cross into his bedroom, where she drops into a well-practiced seiza, and she pours him a cup of tea. Her actions are deft and reflexive—a force of habit. And, yet, she feels his eyes on her, and the nerves in her fingers spark in response.

She does not miss a movement, and, just as he likes, she lets her sleeve pull back to expose the white skin of her wrist. She can hear him inhale at the sight, and she smiles demurely. "Your tea," she murmurs to him coyly.

He takes it from her, but his eyes never shift from hers. In fact, he deepens his look, and she wonders what secrets he finds in the depths of her stare.

"The proposal," she starts, breaking the gaze to pour herself a fresh cup, "will be delivered by Lord Shihōin."

"Aunt Masuyo will accompany you today," he murmurs before taking a sip.

Hisana presses her lips together, but she is too slow. Her smile escapes. "Of course," she replies darkly.

Ever perceptive, Byakuya inclines his head and studies her for a long moment. "She has been rallying the opposition," he observes shrewdly.

Hisana keeps her gaze fixed on the fragrant water swirling in her tea bowl. "She has been meeting independently with the Takatsukasa clan for the last few months."

"And the Konoe Family?" Her husband's words are sharp and piercing, and she shivers. It has been a long while since she has heard such an edge to his voice.

_Not since…_

Her eyes widen, and her breath draws into her chest where it sits in her lungs like a giant ball. _How could I have forgotten?_ she chides herself.

It is the Anniversary. A very portentous anniversary at that. She is beside herself for forgetting; although, it's not quite a thing she wishes to remember. She pushes the thought away, deep into the recesses of her brain.

"Tadahiro sent a missive late yesterday," she begins, and, before her husband can make his request, she is on her feet. Nimble fingers pluck the letter from his desk. "I placed it here, thinking you would see it."

He arrived at the estate so late that night; he must've missed it.

She proffers the letter, and he takes it from her with an eagerness that would be imperceptible to most, but she has mastered his many moods and expressions well.

He is displeased with this correspondence. Mostly, she thinks, he is displeased that Tadahiro would send the missive to _her_ and not to the head of the family.

Without hesitation, he snaps the letter open. The sharp rip of the paper's fiber pulling startles her, but she settles into place. She dares to glimpse him with a quick look.

He reads the words with a predatory gaze.

"He seems amiable to the proposal," she says quietly, keeping her eyes on the tatami.

Her husband rolls the letter and replaces it in its envelope. "If he is there," he states cooly, almost threateningly.

Hisana's gaze remains downcast, and she nods. "He has been away on business for many months." Her voice goes soft, and it trails on the stale air. Flickers of his reiatsu curl around her, and she feels the intensity of his rancor graze her skin.

"I should ensure he stays away for many more." He sets the communication aside and takes another sip of tea.

Hisana musters a gentle look and smiles up at him. "So that meeting of yours?"

He turns to her. His features smooth when they lock eyes, and he exhales a small breath. He still isn't pleased, but it is an improvement.

"What is it about?" Her smile lengthens, and a hopeful look colors her visage.

In an even movement, his eyelids slip down, and he shakes his head. "It is confidential."

He is harassing her. She knows it. His tight-lipped response tortures her with her own imagination.

"Is it confidential because it is _dangerous_?" she purrs, leaning forward, closing the space between them.

He lifts his head and glances down at her in a look that tells her that he will not capitulate to her whims. Not this time, at least.

"Or," she begins, her voice becoming increasingly breathy, and she glances up at him suggestively, "is it because…"

Her breath ghosts across his face. He can smell the fragrance of tea and honey mixing with her white plum perfume, and he leans in for a kiss, but she stops him.

"…there is _no meeting_." She pulls away before he can catch her, and she folds her arms against her chest.

He grins at her, and the icy fury that once darkened his eyes recedes. "There is a meeting," he observes. "It has been on the schedule for nearly a year."

Hisana's eyes narrow, and she gives him a playful onceover. "Is that so?" and her eyes dart over to the calendar. Her lips part, but he silences her with a kiss.

She flails and falls into his lap—a heap of perfumed silk— but she knows he is contented when she feels his arms wrap around her. He buries his head in her hair, and she can feel his chest expand against her back.

Nuzzling into her neck, he rests his chin on her shoulder, and the two stare into the garden. Rukia practices with her Zanpakutō in the adjoining yard. "She takes her test today," Hisana murmurs.

"That reminds me," he says, untangling himself from her.

She lets out a small whimper when she feels his body's warmth and comfort pull away, but he returns quickly and wraps her up with haste. "I thought she might need this." In his hand, he holds a wrapped package.

"What is it?" Hisana asks, turning her head slightly so that she can get a better look at him.

"Tekkō. She'll need them as she begins to rely on her sword more." His breath heats the shell of Hisana's ear, and his arms tighten when he feels her shiver. "Here," he says, slipping the gift into her hands.

Hisana turns in his arms and smiles up at him. "Lord Kuchiki, your kindness is touching, but I think she would prefer if you gave the gift to her. Personally."

He seems a little shocked by his wife's advice. "Do you think it is appropriate?"

Hisana's smile weakens as she attempts to ascertain his meaning. _Appropriate? A gift. From you. She will be ecstatic._

"The gift," he elaborates.

Hisana nods. "Very tasteful." She often forgets how uncertain he can be when the situation takes a dive into the realm of interpersonal matters. "She will love them." Hisana cups a side of his face in her hand and tucks a few stray hairs back. "Thank you," she whispers before pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

* * *

"One, two, three," Rukia counts, trying to match her strokes to the beat that she sets for herself. Sweat drips from her chin, travels down her neck, and dampens her already moist robes. _Just a little longer_, she keeps telling herself, refusing to heed the burning prickles that roll up and down her arms and legs.

When she is satisfied with her form, she sheaths her blade, bows to the maple tree that she pretends is the judge, and crosses the yard back to her room, strips, bathes, and garbs herself in her brand new Shihakushō. It is the first time that she has donned the black and white uniform, and she starts when she sees herself in the mirror. She has waited for this day for a whole year, long and painful. She has waited for the moment where she could wear the Shihakushō and call herself a Shinigami.

She still has the officer test to complete, however. It is her last obstacle before she can assume a position at the Thirteenth. The last item on her To-Do-List before her training ends and her career begins.

Her heart throbs in her chest at the thought.

She would no longer be Rukia, the Student. She would be Rukia, the Soul Reaper. For some reason, the change in role proves horrifying.

The number of ways in which she can screw up seems to increase by a mile. Beginning with the officer's test.

_Brother has been so generous to tutor me_, she thinks to herself, still staring distantly at her reflection. _I hope I can honor his kindness._ Indeed, the thought of _not_ being assigned a seated position sinks her heart and draws the bile from her stomach. It would be disgraceful, and she would feel so unworthy of all the time, money, and effort Brother and Sister have spent to ensure her success.

It would have been easier if she had remained in the Academy.

"Lady Kuchiki," the steward's voice rumbles through the door. "Mr. Abarai waits in the vestibule."

_He's early_, she thinks to herself. _Must be nervous._ She knows she is nervous, and she already has her division assignment. He has neither right now.

Rukia nods before realizing that the steward cannot _see_ her. "Yes, thank you," and she bows out of habit.

Seeing the steward's inky silhouette creep across the rice paper, Rukia turns to the garden door and breathes a small sigh of relief. At least she has someone to escort her to the Academy. Renji and his friends have proved to be so much more than fellow students, and she is glad to have the warmth of camaraderie up until the very last minute.

In a wild motion, she throws back the garden door and bolts across the threshold. She is scampering across the breezeway when the sound of a familiar voice and the sensation of a familiar reiatsu washes over her.

"Sister!" Hisana calls from behind her.

Rukia whirls around in excitement, already knowing that her sister and brother stand at her back.

"Sister!" Rukia cries back and waves.

Hisana gestures for her to approach, and, Rukia obliges. Eagerly. Too eagerly. She takes two steps and falls flat on her face. Her arm shoots up, and she gives a limp-wristed wave, "I'm alright," she says meekly.

Before she has the chance to pick herself up off the hardwood, her sister is at her side, cupping her chin in her hand and dabbing the sleeve of her kimono to the bleeding gash that splits her bottom lip.

"Oh, dear," Hisana murmurs, pressing the silken fabric of her sleeve fast against the wound. "How much pain?"

Rukia shakes her head. "It is nothing," she says, hoping her earnest look will offset her flushing cheeks. It doesn't.

"Are you certain? I can call for the physician."

Rukia glances up to find not only her sister's worried look but her brother, also, peering down at her. His brows furrow as he observes the damage.

Rukia wants to melt into the ground. Or hide. One or the other. She definitely does not want to be the source of their pitying looks. "I am well," she says, her voice cracking diffidently.

Hisana presses her lips together and gives a slight nod. "If you aren't," she begins as she wipes the dirt from Rukia's face, "you let me know."

"Yes, Sister," Rukia murmurs, sheepishly. She takes her sister's hand and falls into Hisana's sweet hug.

"I am so proud of you," Hisana says, giving Rukia a tight squeeze before pulling away to observe Rukia's expression. "You will do great."

Rukia's eyes drop to the ground. "Thank you, Sister."

"Here," a low baritone yanks her gaze up.

_Did Brother say something?_ Her heart drops to her feet as she glances up to find him offering her a small wrapped parcel.

"It is a gift." His gaze trails to the side as if he is unaccustomed to such acts. He is clearly unsure of what to do or say.

Touched, Rukia takes it from his hands and opens it. White tekkō—just like the ones he wears. If possible, her face turns an even deeper shade of red, and she bows deeply. "Thank you so much," she rattles out, shaken by his kindness. "I will cherish them."

"You will _need_ them as you begin training with your Zanpakutō with greater frequency," he says in his quiet tenor.

"Yes, Brother. Thank you. I am eternally grateful."

Hisana smiles down at Rukia before glancing up at Byakuya. "Let us know when you receive your results, Rukia."

"Yes, Sister!"

* * *

"Your _wife_!"

Byakuya doesn't have to glance up. The high-pitched howl could only belong to one person—his perpetually flustered aunt. She squawks and flaps about the room like a loud exotic bird, sloughing her figurative feathers and waddling under her layers of brightly colored plumage.

And, yet he does not spare her a single glance. Instead, he continues his division paperwork. There is no point in engaging.

He already knows what's coming.

That morning, right when he woke, he knew his aunt would have her conniption in his office. It was the first thought that entered his head when he turned to his slumbering wife in the bed. It was also the last thought in his head when he bid his determined wife farewell that day.

He knows his aunt is about to lay into him for whatever perceived infraction occurred during the Annual Meeting of the Five Families.

_She must've lost her gamble._

Byakuya frowns.

Right then, he is unsure of whether he would have chosen his wife or his aunt to exit the Chambers victorious. While he approves of his wife's _scheme_, Hisana takes her defeats in stride like a proper Lady.

His aunt?

He has a sinking feeling that he will be hearing about this for _decades_.

"The proposal is seditious, Lord Kuchiki! _And_ subversive!"

"Seditious and subversive are synonyms. You're being redundant," he breathes between brush strokes. _She's being extravagant_, is what he really thinks to himself, and he has so little patience dealing with someone with so little sense.

She stops mid-step and gawks at him. She can't read his expression—his usual icy indifference proves to be an effective mask—and she lets out a pitiful cry. "Lord Kuchiki! You should have seen her! She was so _brazen_ and _disgraceful_. When I opposed the proposal that Lord Shihōin made, she _pretended _to support my view. _But she didn't_. It was just a guise to emphasize all of the proposal's strengths."

Byakuya smirks at this, which absolutely tortures his aunt.

Of course, Hisana would do that. She probably had been planning it for a month. He wishes he could have been there to witness it, but, if he had been there, his aunt would not have made the motion, and Hisana's proposal would have fallen.

"Lord Konoe agreed to the proposal, I take it," he observes, deadpan. He thumbs through the paperwork for a moment before moving onto the next incident report.

"Yes," his aunt hisses like a deflating tire.

A corner of his mouth slopes down at this. "Tadahiro was present, then."

"Yes," she sneers. "You know, if you had represented the family's interests, _this_ would not have happened!"

_True_.

Tadahiro would have stood with the opposition if he had been present, and he would have done it out of pure spite. The two men had a falling out many years ago, and the mutual animosity has only swelled with time. The points of distinction between them have become so numerous that, with each year, Byakuya forgets they have _anything_ in common. Breathing and bleeding seem to be the beginning and end of their commonalities.

"His words, milord, were, and I quote, _'Anything for Lady Hisana.'_" His aunt's face goes motionless, frozen in slack-jawed repugnance.

Surely, his aunt finds the statement to be an indictment of his wife's character. And perhaps it is. Hisana consorted with Tadahiro at one point in her life. A very dark point in her life, he reminds himself as soon as he feels the contents in his stomach shift at the thought.

His gaze flits up to his aunt, who remains frozen in a state of visceral repulsion. Briefly, he wonders if she has had a stroke, and he contemplates how long it would take to ensure that she is beyond medical help before he sends for the healer.

"Can you _believe_ it? The implications!" she cries and throws her head back in some overwrought emotion.

Byakuya clenches his jaw at this, but for an entirely different reason. "There was a quorum to approve the proposal," he states flatly, careful not to expose his contempt for his aunt's previous sentiments.

"We were the only ones who formally opposed it."

Byakuya cocks a brow at this. He is slightly taken aback that the Takatsukasa fell into line, but, with Hisana's _performance_, it may have led the other clans to believe the objection was overruled. The Takatsukasa would not stand to be the only clan to oppose the proposal. It would have been improper and borderline foolish.

So, it was unanimous. The proposal went unopposed. He plucks a blank sheet of paper. Quick inky marks serve to remind him to check the minutes of the meeting. It is a gentleman's wager that the vote is notated as a 5-0.

"So there we have it! Our hard-earned money on a fool's bet," she fusses and stamps her foot. "And for what? Heathens! We can't possibly trust _heathens_. This will never work."

For the first time since she barreled into his office, he acknowledges her. "Investing beyond Seireitei seems prudent at this point."

Her expression blackens, and she gapes at him. "Lord Kuchiki, you cannot possibly be taken in by _that harlot's _false promises. This is just a way for her to divert funds from Seireitei to Rukongai."

"No," he says sternly. He will abide his aunt's incessant kvetching if it spares Hisana the agony, but he _refuses_ to tolerate disrespect toward his wife. "We are expanding our family's enterprises," he continues with a sense of finality hardening in his voice. "The proposal stands. That was all I needed to know."

The unspoken sentiment: _You are dismissed. _

He then returns to his paperwork. A remote unfeeling look chills his features, and he sends a blast of reiatsu hurling toward her, urging her to the door.

The conversation is officially over.

At his cold dismissal, she balls her fists at her side. Flabbergasted—she is completely flabbergasted and fuming. She whirls around on her heels and stomps toward the door. Before exiting, she pauses and manages a patronizing bow. "I will not let _her_ ruin our family, Lord Kuchiki," she yelps before throwing back the door and storming out.

He exhales a small sigh, and, setting down his brush, he glances out the window. _A millennium_, he decides finally. He will hear about this day for a _millennium_.

He shakes his head.

His aunt's antics almost eclipse his good news.

_Almost_.

Reflexively, his eyes drift to the white haori draped across the back of his chair. The garment's cobalt blue lining catches his eyes for a brief moment. A warm sense of accomplishment rushes through him, and he lets it sink in for a second longer before returning to his work.

* * *

Hisana quietly arranges a few dishes. Her lips pull to the side and she heaves a heavy breath. _Still not quite right_, and she wonders if it ever will be.

For the twentieth time, she rearranges the assortment, but shuffling the deck does not prove to quell her deep dissatisfaction. _Damn it_, her inner critic hisses in her head. _How did he use to like it? Way back when…_ She stops herself, feeling a strange private heat creep across her back and cheeks. She tries to push the memories away, but she has a feeling they will buoy back up to the surface again.

"Eh," she grunts her frustration as she tries another configuration. Then, suddenly, she wonders if it isn't the arrangement that perturbs her but the reason she is setting the dishes. Her lips slope into a frown. _I am being selfish_, she chastises herself, and she drops her head a little. _He is so powerful and talented. He deserves it_.

Yet, her heart chills like a winter's early frost. Pensively, she sits, staring down at the tatami, sorting through it all. She knows it will take some time to adjust. She can accept it, and, glancing up, she swallows her somberness and forces a strained smile.

The sparkle in her eyes when she sees him, however, is genuinely felt. Immediately, she rises and greets him at the door. She puts a leash on her private feelings for his sake. "How fashionable," she calls, teasingly eying his recent _addition_, "it suits you."

As he crosses the threshold, her fingers catch in the white silk of his newly earned haori. The fabric is sleek, cooling her warm palms as they play in the loose folds.

"You don't seem surprised," he observes, head bending toward hers.

"Why should I be? You are so strong, milord. It was only a matter of time." She laces her fingers through his, and her eyes are downcast.

Right then, he spots something out of the corner of his eye, and he glances past her to see she has set a celebratory dinner for him. "You knew." His voice deflates a little at this.

Her smile widens, and she lifts her head. "I have my sources," she giggles lightly.

"Who?" he asks, squeezing her hands.

She arches a brow. "A woman must have her mystery, milord. How else can she keep her lover guessing?" She takes his hand and leads him to the feast.

"I could unspool your secrets for centuries and never hope to near the end," he says longingly under his breath.

She shakes her head, ignoring his comment for the time being. "I am very proud of you, Lord Byakuya. Not that you need _me_ to commend your skills." Her fingers are quick to peel the haori from his shoulders, and she relieves him of his Zanpakutō. "Tonight we should celebrate anyway you wish. This is merely an offering," she says, waving at the food, tea, and sake set for him.

"Anyway I wish?" he echoes, watching her with a hooded look.

His voice is low and rich. It rushes over her and _through_ her. She starts for a moment before storing his belongings lovingly in their rightful place.

His eyes follow her, and she can _feel _his stare, as if he is touching her. Heat pricks at her back before sinking into her core. His reiatsu isn't helping matters much, either. He pours it on thick, practically begging her to acknowledge him. And, she does just that. She turns fixes him with a sultry gaze, the very one that she has mastered over nearly a century of practicing. "Anyway you wish, my _Captain_."

* * *

"How do you think you did?" Renji asks, following Rukia into a spacious room. Tea and food have been set for them on a small table. But she cannot focus. Her heart hums in her chest like the wings of a hummingbird—quick, fast and unyielding.

Dropping into seiza on a cushion, she glances down. "I haven't looked at the results," she admits, sheepishly. Couldn't bring herself to perform the simple act of unsealing the envelope and _looking_.

"Do you want me to open it?" he asks impatiently. He tries to gasp the paper from her hands, but she keeps it out of reach.

"No," she says forcefully. "I am waiting for Sister."

"For Lady Kuchiki? To do what?" His brows furrow, betokening his clear confusion. "Hold your hand while you open it?" he kids her. "Stroke your back and tell you everything is going to _okay_," he mocks with a devious glance.

_Maybe_, Rukia thinks guiltily. "What does it matter to you?" she snaps. A playful glint burns in her eyes.

"I dunno? Maybe I thought we'd go out."

"What if it's _bad_?" she gasps a little. _Gods, please don't let it be bad._

"See, that's the thing about drinking. You can do it when its good news _or_ bad," he says with a philosophical air about him and a nod of his head.

Rukia leans back to stare through the slight rectangular opening in the door. Craning her neck, she spies the item for which she is searching. "Brother is in residence," she murmurs as if that _means _anything to Renji.

"How do you know?" he asks, reaching for a cup of tea.

She blinks, confused.

He tilts his head to the side and shoots her a chastising glare. "How do you know?" he repeats himself between sips.

"The lantern is on," she replies cryptically.

Again, he stares at her, silently urging her to expound on her previous observation.

Rukia furrows her brow. "The servants turn on the lantern when Brother comes home so they know not to disturb him and Sister."

Renji lifts his brows at this, and she can tell he finds it intensely odd. "Why?"

Rukia purses her lips. "Long story."

"What do they do in there?"

Immediately, her fingers brush against the wood of the door before clenching and drawing it shut. "Sister sometimes performs a tea ceremony," she says, shrugging.

_How would she know?_ It's not like her sister gives her a schedule every week; although, she wouldn't put it past Hisana to _have_ some such schedule. If she did, however, she certainly did not share it.

"_Tea ceremony?_" he sounds incredulous.

Rukia crosses her arms in front of her, and, nervously, her fingers curl around her cushion. "Yeah?" she says as if to imply that all wives perform tea ceremonies for their husbands. Why not? It isn't like Rukia has many other models of wifedom, and her sister and brother seem happy. "She also plays the shamisen and the koto for him sometimes."

Renji's lips split into a wolfish grin. "Please tell me that she does ikebana and has a fondness for dance."

Rukia cocks a brow. "What if she does?" Why would that matter? Her forehead wrinkles as she catches a whiff of insinuation. "Are you trying to imply something about _my sister_?" she tries to sound menacing, but her company knows her too well.

"Nothing. Other than it sounds like she was a," Renji's voice trails off, allowing her the opportunity to fill in the blank.

Rukia, however, just stares at him, benighted. "What?" her brows lower over her wide innocent eyes.

"_You know_," his voice lingers in the air suggestively. "That she was once an," he adds, nodding as he silently completes the observation in his head.

Rukia stares at him, blankly. She has no idea what point he is driving at, but she has a sinking feeling that she wouldn't like it if he told her.

Renji chuckles at her naiveté and waves a hand in her direction. "Was once a very skillful _artisan_."

Rukia frowns at his choice in words. "You are being _childish_," she huffs, folding her arms against her chest. "And don't speak ill of my sister!" Punctuating her displeasure, she gives him a slow disapproving shake of her head.

Renji braces against her harsh words. "I would never speak ill of your sister!" he retorts, seemingly incensed that she would accuse him of such a thing. "She's like a sister to _me_."

The lines of Rukia's face become hard, and she turns her head. As much as she hates to admit it, he has a point. Hisana always treats Renji as if he is a member of the family—like a surrogate brother of sorts. "Eh," she sighs, and she jerks her chin up to shoot him a skeptical look.

_Oh, no! _

He leans in.

Before she has the chance to sabotage it, he springs his trap, snatching her prized envelope from her fingertips. She grasps at air. _Damn it, Renji! _She holds back her curses, allowing only a sharp mewl to escape from her lips.

"Ha!" he chuckles, and he makes quick use of the seal. A flick of the wrist later, and he balances the results between his index and middle fingers. He makes a small teasing gesture in front of her face, but she is too slow to reclaim the paper.

"So, what does little Rukia get to do at the Thirteenth?" he coos, clearly enjoying the torture he is laying on her. "Let's see."

"You sure you can read it, Renji?" she quips. "There may be some big words."

"Shh," he waves his hand dismissively as his greedy brown eyes hungrily take in each character. Grinning, he turns to her and says, "Good job, Rukia!" Playfully, he nudges her shoulder with his elbow. "You are the Fifth Seat of the Thirteenth!" he declares proudly as if it is his own placement. "Congratulations."

She blinks. "What?" It is the only _thing_—word, emotion, _sense_—that jumps to mind. Indeed, the totality of how she feels can be summed up with the word, "what."

"Yeah! I hope, on Match Day, I get as lucky as you!" He jovially pushes against her shoulder with his.

She nods to herself. "That's good, right? Fifth Seat?"

Renji's brows furrow. "You weren't expecting to be made Vice Captain, right?" The irony is thick in his voice. "That position is already taken."

She rolls her eyes at him. "No." She _wasn't_ _expecting to be Vice Captain_… _Renji_. She represses the urge to scoff at him.

"Sounds plenty good to me," Renji says. "Does your sister know?"

Rukia's gaze flicks to the garden door. _Probably_, she thinks as she considers the possibility. Her sister seems to know _everything_ like some kind of beekeeper but, instead of bees, she keeps _secrets_. It is a talent if nothing else—a talent that seems to shock _both_ her and her brother-in-law on the regular.

Shaking her head and the thoughts away, she pins Renji with a look and arches a black eyebrow. "Well, Renji," Rukia begins, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I haven't told her."

He shrugs. "Seems like she would know, yunno? She takes tea with Captain Ukitake."

Rukia furrows her brows. "How did you know she takes tea with Captain Ukitake?"

"Saw 'em leaving one of the tea houses today. She seemed pleased."

"Sister always seems pleased," Rukia noted dryly. Could mean nothing. Could mean _anything_.

Renji nods. "She's got a lot to be pleased about." He makes a large sweeping motion with his arm. "She's the Lady of _this_. All of it."

Rukia gives a resolute nod of her head. "Do you think I should tell her?"

Renji shrugs. "_Sure_. I'd tell you."

She rolls back onto her feet and stands. "I will be right back." Before he can protest, she is out the door.

The halls are dark, but she has the steps memorized. She knows the number of steps, all the corners, and which floorboards squeaked. She had it down to a _science_, and she was extra careful to approach the Lord and Lady's quarters with a quiet tread and a soft heart.

Part of her instinctively knows it is a bad idea to intrude. Part of her doesn't really consider the implications. And part of her doesn't care. She is sure her sister will be pleased.

When she reaches the door, she kneels down. Just as she is readying her hand to knock a knuckle against the wood, something catches her eye. The door to their bedchambers is ajar. A slight rectangle of light cascades from their room into the inky corridor. The illumination creeps across Rukia's face as she glimpses inside the chamber.

Her eyes go wide, and she quickly withdraws. Her heart sputters and drums a heavy quick beat. She can feel her pulse ache in her throat and arms, and she flees as quietly as possible.

The look was so short—a mere eyeful. Yet, the image is rich and indelible. She doesn't understand it at first, and, as she shuts her eyes, the image cuts through her mental noise. Its fidelity is startling. The image is all ebony hair, silk robes, milky flesh and strange looks.

It was such an innocent gaze. Only a glimpse, she tells herself. At first, she isn't sure what she saw. Loose silk pooled around her sister and brother-in-law. Her brother's face was the first thing that drew her eye—its lines were soft and smooth as if a master artist had sculpted it from the finest Carrara marble.

But, his expression… She had never seen it before. Gone was the noble severity that usually cloaks him. Instead, he seemed drunk; his eyes were half-lidded and heavy as he stared down, seeing yet unseeing. An unfocused gaze.

Following his gaze, her eyes trailed from his face to his chest, which was partially exposed. His robes were open but not completely removed. Traveling a little further down to his hands, her heart skipped a beat and did not restart.

Dark silken strands of hair splayed across his hips. The warm oranges and yellows of lantern light danced in the tresses, keeping time with the subtle movements of her sister's head. Her sister's back was toward her, but Rukia could tell Hisana's robes were loose for they lapped over Byakuya's, and they pooled unfettered around their bodies.

Rukia did not see the act itself, but she has a sinking feeling she knew what it was. Colorful descriptions from her days in Inuzuri and the Academy fill her head, bridging her lack of experience in such matters. Her initial suspicion was confirmed by the blissful look on her brother's face and by the way his fingers tangled in her sister's hair.

Pale and a little wobbly, Rukia returns to Renji. Stepping across the threshold, she pauses, fighting to restrain her look of abject horror. She does not succeed.

Renji's head bobs up at her presence, and he regards her with a look of confusion. She knows there are words simmering on the tip of his tongue and drawing his lips, but she doesn't want to hear them. She doesn't even know how to answer the questions that surely nip at his thoughts.

"Let's get that drink," she says before he has the chance to speak.


	8. The Viewing

**Summary:** Byakuya celebrates his promotion. Rukia goes to a party and runs into several interesting characters along the way. Hisana and Aizen have a brief tête-à-tête.

* * *

**The Viewing**

Tonight, he holds his wife tightly against his chest.

She smells a heady mixture of gardenia and exertion, and he is quick to draw in another breath. He pulls it deep into his lungs, where he allows it to linger. Her perfume rouses him, intoxicates him, but, mostly, it reminds him of just how close he came to _losing_ her.

So close.

Only a hairsbreadth.

She could have been a memory. Should've been a memory. But she isn't. She is there, lying warm and very much alive in his arms.

Her silken hair is glossy and lustrous now. It wasn't then. Not two years ago. It was dull, breaking. She was dull, breaking, crumbling, threatening to turn into ash in his arms.

Everything would have turned to ash had she passed. Forever locked in the past, he would have been bound to the dead more readily than the living. There was no one else for him, not after her. The bond that kept his heart beating would have shattered. He would have become a phantom, embodying only what those around him wished to see—duty, honor, pride, but never humanity. No, her death would have stripped him of his humanity, and, laid bare, he would have become nothing more than idealism imprisoned.

Idealism imprisoned by grief.

But, he isn't idealism imprisoned by grief, and his heart is not locked away in the past. It beats, strong and hard, and the bonds that keep his heart beating have steadily grown, and those bonds will continue to grow with her at his side.

She stirs in his arms.

Shock.

He could've sworn she was slumbering. Her breathing was so soft, so gentle, and she hardly moved. But, she was awake all along. Gazing into the middle distance, no doubt, as she is so often prone to doing. Has always done. Likely, will always do.

"Do not torture yourself, Lord Byakuya," she murmurs, turning her head to get better view of him.

Her look is sincere. An empathetic color paints her visage, which immediately alerts him to her meaning: _Don't torture yourself on thoughts of the past._

He wants to tell her that he isn't torturing himself with thoughts of his family. Not tonight, at least. He remembers the anniversary well, too well. Two years ago on that day, he paid his family's betrayal in blood.

What she doesn't know—what he will never tell her—is that he would gladly pay it again.

He adjusts his weight against the mound of pillows that cushion his back, and he pulls her tightly against him. Words do not sound from his lips nor do they even draw from his chest into his throat. Silence is the perfect antidote to the restrained fury he feels toward his family as he considers their treachery.

It will not do.

She deserves more.

"Your proposal," he begins, resting his chin on the top of her head. Again, he inhales a deep perfumed breath, and he holds it.

She glimpses him, "Lady Masuyo." She doesn't have to complete the sentiment. He knows, and she knows. His aunt's name has become shorthand for _suffering_.

He tilts his head to the side, eying her with a knowing look. "It succeeded."

Hisana's lips curve up tensely as if she is preparing to say something deprecating, but she holds back. She knows he will not stand for her to diminish her feats. He never diminishes his, and he expects no less from her. "It did," she decides on objectivity at the last minute, removing any shred of accomplishment or pride from her voice.

It isn't in her nature to bask in the golden light of success. She is too shrewd, too forward-thinking. The proposal's acceptance is but a small step in what will likely be a long iterative process—a process where failure casts a long shadow.

He watches her with a dreamy stare. The sweet sensation of her reiatsu combines well with the alcohol coursing through him. It lulls him into warm complacency, a state he rarely relishes except when in her company.

"You honor me," she says, after a pregnant pause. Her eyes soften, but the keen glint that sparks in her look remains. Fire crackles in the depths of her gaze. Always has. It is a persistent sort of flame. Neither her guilt nor his family could squelch it.

He sees that same fire radiating in her sister's eyes as well, and he wonders if it is an inherited trait.

"How do I honor you?" he asks in earnest.

"Through your compassion, Lord Byakuya. I don't know how I will ever repay the debt."

His brows furrow, and his forehead creases at her language.

It isn't the first time that she has spoken of his love in terms of debt and arrearage. It won't be the last, he fears. He certainly does not view his affection in such terms, and he would never keep an accounting, but, if he did, he is quite certain she gravely underestimates her value to him.

"There are no more debts, Hisana. Nor will there ever be."

Again.

End of discussion.

She squeezes her eyes shut briefly. Pain colors her face. Its shades are dark and brooding, but she is quick to counter it. She is always swift to push down the remnants of guilt that continues to chip away at her heart like a deepening wound. Briefly, he wonders how many scars mark her heart. He wonders if their number exceeds his own.

Within moments, a playful smile breaks across her lips—the type of smile that lights up her entire face. "We should celebrate," she says, turning in his arms. Her heart is noisy, beating in quick bursts against his chest.

"I thought we were," he murmurs, watching her intently.

She gives him a knowing shake of her head. "Can't you hear it, Lord Byakuya? The sounds of raucous merrymaking? The city is awake and draws breath."

_Indeed, an undeniably rattling gasp at that,_ he thinks sardonically to himself, but he listens, for her sake, to the muted din of drunken tongues and loud music that bleeds into his tranquil estate all the way from the center of the city.

And, just how loud _must_ they be? he grouses to himself. Surely, the Academy students and the men of the Gotei 13 could commemorate their accomplishments in a more tranquil _dignified_ fashion.

His wife's lips turn up as if his disapprobation conforms to her expectations. "I am sure they are expecting your presence." She spies him with a devious glance. "You know I am correct. You know you should go for just a few minutes. Just for appearance's sake."

Before he can protest, she pulls him to his feet.

"Such a noble and handsome captain. It would be cruel to deprive them of your company." Her voice is lilting, and she swings the door open in a sweeping gesture.

He doesn't particularly _want_ to go. Indeed, the thought of bearing the full brunt of the infernal noise only hinted at provokes a sense of _dread_ deep within him.

The merrymaking is mostly for the student's sake, to celebrate their last examination before their fates are sealed. Most of the Shinigami attend for the free alcohol and food. What purpose would his presence serve?

"I know what you are thinking," Hisana begins, shaking her head as she reads the lines of his countenance with disturbing accuracy, "you _think_ the celebration is for the graduating academy students but that's where you are _wrong_, my dear husband. It is for the students _and_ the newly promoted."

Sometimes he loathes that she fancies him so transparent.

"Also," she begins, leveling her shoulders and placing her hands on her hips, "as Captain of the Sixth, it is only proper to meet the future faces of your division."

His eyes narrow into a frosty stare. A silent protest—one that would send most sane men on their heels in a hurry.

_She_, however, chuckles. Years of being on the receiving end of his glacial expressions have inoculated her. This, too, perturbs him.

Hisana lifts her head, and, without his consent, implied or explicit, her deft fingers begin to piece him back together. "Come, now," she urges him with a soft voice and an even softer touch.

When and where did he lose control?

Had his hardened stares _ever_ affected her?

He doesn't say a word as she tenderly begins to clothe him in his vestments. Her hands are swift, knowing each tie and every knot from years of diligent study. Eagerly, her slender fingers smooth the wrinkles from the fall of his haori.

Tilting her head to the side and giving him a careful onceover, she announces with great pride, "You look regel."

Her flattery, however, has no effect on him. He stares miserably down at her. _Is this necessary?_

She answers his unspoken question with a resolute nod: _Absolutely_.

* * *

_SLAM_.

Rukia startles at the sharp cracking sound of glass hitting wood, and she wheels around in the direction of the harrowing noise. With heart throbbing in her throat and her muscles locking in icy tension, she watches the strange exchange, trying her best to make sense of it all.

"Go right ahead!" A woman, with ample bosom and a head full of luscious blonde curls, announces. Determination burns in her clear blue eyes. "If you think your _delicate_ constitution can handle it." She plops down on a rickety chair, and, swishing a pink scarf around her shoulders with one hand, she pours a generous amount of sake into a cup with her other hand.

The object of her … _ire?_… flounces at the challenge. He is a tall slender man with a jaw-length bob and … _feathers?_... attached to his right eyebrow and eyelashes. "Don't make me laugh," he scoffs, folding his arms indignantly across his chest. "How _unlovely_," he says and jerks his chin to the right.

_What is happening?_ Rukia wonders, halting mid stride.

Her gaze and interest deepens, and she takes solace at the fact that a sizable crowd has gathered around the table. The crowd comprises mostly _men_. Strong-jawed men with brutal looks and bulky builds. Men with _megaton_ spiritual power, Rukia observes as her gaze flits to her new _companions_. The reiatsu just roils over her. It is oppressive, suffocating almost, but it doesn't deter her. She can't take her eyes off the exchange.

Another man emerges. He is tall and lean with a shaved head and angular, narrow features. With a male brusqueness, he kicks back a chair. He drops down on the wooden seat, and it squeals in protest. Never matter. Adjusting his weight to make up for the wobble of the chair's legs, he sits, open-legged, and slouches over the table. "I'll shut her up," he announces, confident.

"At least a challenge," she retorts, eying the man with the bob and feathers; the unspoken sentiment is clearly: _Unlike you_.

The Shinigami with the bob bristles, but he keeps his eyes trained on the proceeding. "Take her, Ikkaku," he growls, flipping his hair in the most malevolent act of _preening_ that Rukia has ever witnessed.

Pouring himself a cup, _Ikkaku_ and the busty woman raise their glasses, and, in a violent motion, they throw back their drinks and slam their cups down on the table. Comrades, dutiful and fervent, refill the cups.

Rukia's eyes widen at the spectacle.

She has seen drinking games in the past. The brutish men in Inuzuri would engage in the behavior whenever they had extra money to burn. But, even in Inuzuri, where violent iniquities were commonplace, did the men embrace their drinking games with this level of _commitment_ and reckless _zeal_. The drinking game at hand is aggressive and performed with the ceremony of a battle.

_Oh, gods,_ Rukia shudders, _Will I be expected to outdrink men at the Thirteenth?_ Her heart flutters at the thought. If so, she better get to practicing because, from the looks of it, she will have some pretty stiff competition. And, the prospect seems entirely too plausible especially since the woman, who appears to be edging out the male Shinigami in her love of sake, has all the _appearance_ of feminine virtue. She is thin, well endowed, meticulously groomed, and unquestionably attractive. She even _accessorizes_—a pink scarf flutters and snaps around her shoulders with each tip of her head, and a beaded necklace dips into her cleavage.

Rukia doesn't even _accessorize_.

"Rukia?"

She doesn't hear her name. The strange rhythm of drinks being poured and then summarily downed hypnotizes her. Just how many can they consume? She wonders. How long can they go? She thinks she counts ten—no, now eleven—wait, thirteen drinks! And, neither one shows any signs of inebriation or stopping, for that matter.

How strange. Engrossing, but strange.

"Rukia."

Twenty, she counts, and neither appear to be fazed.

How, again, are they _not_ passing out?

"Rukia!"

She jumps up at the intensity of her name burning in her ears. "Ugh," she mumbles, turning to find Renji and Momo standing right behind her.

"What are _you_ doing?" Renji asks and shoots her a questioning onceover.

"I-ugh, I," Rukia's gaze, however, betrays her before she has the chance to explain.

Renji leans in to see what she is watching. "Ah," he says as if it is completely _normal_. Expected, even.

"Vice Captain Matsumoto of the Tenth," Momo whispers, drawing close to Rukia and nodding her head in the blonde's direction, "and Third Seat Madarame of the Eleventh."

Rukia's eyes widen. _Oh. Well that explains the sheer amount of reiatsu_. Reflexively, she pans the crowd, ever growing, that has assembled to watch the game.

"Mostly the Eleventh's men," Momo notes astutely. "They are very strong."

"Yes," Rukia murmurs. She got that part. Loud and clear.

"Come," Momo says politely, and, looping her arm around Rukia's, the pair moves to a more private space. Renji, however, continues to watch the game, somewhat intrigued, somewhat horrified.

"When do you begin your duties at the Thirteenth?" Momo asks. Excitement courses through her voice as she eyes Rukia.

"A few days," Rukia murmurs, hoping to hide her anxiety. Her eyes flick to Momo, who serenely stares ahead. "And Match Day?"

"Two days," Momo says, shivering. "I am so nervous."

"Which division do you—"

Before Rukia can complete her question, Momo bursts in with, "Five," and her cheeks immediately go pink.

Rukia can't help but smile. "Captain Aizen and Vice Captain Ichimaru, right?" She doesn't know _much_ about each division and its culture, but she does know about the famed Aizen and Ichimaru from Renji.

Momo nods her head in a clear attempt to leash her enthusiasm. "Captain Aizen seems so…"

Powerful?

Cunning?

Like the _monster_ that Renji described?

"…ethical."

Rukia's brows lower over a confused stare. "Oh." Clearly, she was not anticipating _that _response.

Momo's eyes drop to the floor. "Sounds strange, I know. But, after taking his calligraphy class and hearing him discuss his scholarly pursuits, it just seems like he would be such a great teacher. I mean, all the captains are _strong_, right? But, he seems centered and balanced."

Rukia nods approvingly because she has no other response. She has never met either Aizen or Ichimaru, and neither her brother nor sister speaks of the Fifth. At least, not around her. Renji, certainly, has never waxed philosophical about Captain Aizen. But, then, she suspects Renji would never wax philosophical. Ever. About anything. Wouldn't seem productive from his perspective. Renji was all about the struggle and being in the moment. Instinct over rigid logic.

"Lady Rukia, please meet Vice Captain Ise," Momo says sweetly before bowing.

Rukia stops dead and dumbfounded. She has never seen this woman before. _Oh_. _A Vice Captain…_ Bowing, Rukia wracks her brain. _Which division. Ise, Ise, Ise..._

She's got _nothing_.

Quickly, she catches a glimpse of the Vice Captain's arm badge. _Eighth. Good to know._

"Good evening," Rukia manages, although, rather _belatedly_.

"Vice Captain Ise and I are in a book club together," Momo announces, and the woman gives a slight nod of her head.

_Sounds great_, Rukia thinks. She likes books. Reads them all the time. "Oh, how nice," she murmurs, sounding a little flat in her delivery. Immediately, she overcompensates with a wide grin and a bright wide-eyed look.

_Fake it until you make it, right?_ How much Rukia wishes she believed those words.

"Lady Rukia just received her rank at the Thirteenth," Momo says to Ise.

"Excellent," the Vice Captain replies, and, before Rukia can speak words of gratitude, the Vice Captain immediately cuts in, "You should join the Shinigami Women's Association."

_Shinigami Women's Association_, the words echo in Rukia's head. _That a thing? _"Oh, what does the Association do?" Rukia recovers.

"Its mission is to ensure the improvement of all Shinigami."

_Then, why is it called the Shinigami __Women's__ Association?_ Rukia wonders. _And, is there a Shinigami Men's Association?_ Too many questions.

"They are starting a new fundraiser," Momo pipes up.

Ise nods. "Yes, we are planning on producing Captain Photobooks." The Vice Captain adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose. The lenses glint as they catch the dim overhead lighting.

Rukia smiles weakly. "Oh, that sounds interesting." Something about Ise's stare, which is partially veiled by the light reflecting in her glasses, seems predatory, and Rukia isn't sure why. Not yet, anyway. But she has a feeling that the reason is fast coming.

"Lord Kuchiki has just been installed as the new Captain of the Sixth," Ise begins.

_What?_ Rukia's brows furrow. _He has? _She doesn't _remember _seeing him donning the white captain's haori. But, then, again, she hasn't seen him since the morning, when he was still dressed in his casual wear.

"Do you think Captain Kuchiki would be amiable to posing for pictures?"

Ah. The real reason emerges, and Rukia wants to laugh. Hard.

The word, "no," does not even begin to capture the visceral churning that hammers her stomach. Restraining her urge to chuckle, Rukia merely smiles. "I don't know," she manages in her most diplomatic of tones.

Secretly, she cannot wait to break the news to her sister. Hisana, at least, will appreciate the mental image of a group of earnest-faced female Shinigami _asking_ Byakuya to pose for a photobook.

Momo gives Rukia a kind reassuring glance. "Lord Kuchiki seems very private," she observes gently to Ise. "Perhaps he isn't the best subject."

Ise's gaze drifts to Rukia as if she is _waiting_ for Rukia to offer some sort of assurance.

_Oh. Yeah_, Rukia thinks, _I am officially a Shinigami, which makes me officially below a Vice Captain, which officially makes me below the Vice Captain currently staring down at me_... "I could ask Sister. If anyone could get him to agree, it would be Sister," Rukia says sheepishly, knowing all too well that not even her sister could convince Byakuya to submit to something so trifling as posing for a photobook. Rukia, however, is sure that Hisana, despite knowing better, would ask for her sake.

"Thank you, Lady Rukia," Ise says, bowing slightly. "Come," she murmurs to both Momo and Rukia. Tilting her head to a small display, the Vice Captain continues, "The SWA has a booth set up over here. You can fill out the requisite paperwork."

Eagerly, Momo gives a sharp nod of her head and pulls Rukia along.

* * *

"You came!" Ginjirō Shirogane cries upon spotting his Captain. Holding his young daughter, Mihane, tightly in his arms, he continues, "How wonderful for you to honor us with your presence, Captain!" He gives a small bow. "Isn't that great, Mihane?" he asks the bleary-eyed child. Her gaze, unfocused, drifts from Byakuya to Hisana, before she drops her head back to her father's shoulder.

"Good evening, Shirogane," Byakuya states in his usual deadpan voice.

Hisana bows slightly. "It is lovely to see both of you again, especially little Mihane." Her voice is bright like a summer day, which draws the little girl's attention.

Mihane's gaze roams Hisana as if she has a vague memory of the woman. Staring a little longer before she makes her final decision, she extends her hand out. Her little fingers curl in the air before closing.

Hisana is quick to read the child's intentions and steps closer.

"Oh, Lady Kuchiki, you don't have to," Ginjirō murmurs half-heartedly.

"It is perfectly alright," Hisana reassures him as she takes Mihane in her arms. The little girl is pliant and quickly molds against Hisana's body. Reflexively, Mihana snuggles against the curve of Hisana's neck.

"The nanny called in ill, and with," his voice trails off, the moment Hisana shakes her head. She knows. Everybody knows. Neither Ginjirō nor Mihane has taken well to the sudden loss in their family. Like a thief in the night, Ginjirō lost his wife only a few months ago. It is a toll that has punished father and daughter beyond the measure of words or emotion.

Patting the little girl's back, Hisana smiles down fondly at the bundle. "Mihane and I are going to find all kinds of trouble, aren't we?" she teases.

"Unlikely," Byakuya states drily. His intelligent eyes observe the child's slumbering state.

"Well, I certainly can make up for Mihane's share," Hisana murmurs and gives a playful wink in Ginjirō's direction. Taking a small step back, Hisana smiles sweetly, saying, "Us ladies will leave you to discuss the intricacies of saving the world."

Ginjirō bows his head and musters a smile; it is a melancholy sort of smile, as if a memory of his wife plays in his head. "Thank you, Lady Kuchiki," he murmurs before turning to his captain.

Byakuya's eyes remain glued to Hisana, and the corners of his lips slope down. A strange sense of displeasure sinks him as he watches her leave with a child in her arms. A child… His eyes narrow, and he considers his wife's intentions as she flits like a blossom caught on a stray wind to a group of noblewomen. One of Jūshirō's sisters welcomes his wife with a breezy look and a warm smile. Hisana shifts Mihane on her hip and makes easy conversation with the woman.

_A diversion_, Byakuya considers, but, as he watches a moment longer, he draws a very different conclusion. _A shield._

Indeed, Hisana uses Mihane to shield herself from unwanted attention, particularly of the business variety.

He doubts that her gambit will succeed for long. Male ambition is not so easily thwarted.

"I selected the first round of hopefuls," Ginjirō's voice pulls Byakuya's attention. "The names are on your desk."

"Three rounds, correct?" Byakuya observes. He never faced the grueling matching process, and, accordingly, the details always elude him.

"Three rounds, my Captain," Ginjirō confirms. "The final choices are due in two days."

Byakuya nods to himself. "A promising field?"

Ginjirō's lips pull into a straight line. Diplomacy clearly ties his tongue into a Gordian knot. "The usual," he says at length.

"Oh, come now!" Jūshirō announces gently. Without so much as a trace of the man's immense spiritual pressure to warn them of his presence, he folds himself into the conversation. He greets both Byakuya and Ginjirō with a warm look and an acknowledging bow of his head. "The current crop of hopefuls is more competitive than the last. Each year the talent becomes more and more impressive."

Always so hopeful, Byakuya thinks to himself of Jūshirō.

"And, congratulations are in order, Captain Kuchiki," Jūshirō begins, "My Vice Captain informs me that your sister turned out a very inspired performance today."

Byakuya's brows knit. He had completely forgotten about Rukia's test. He shouldn't have as he trained with her that morning. It simply had slipped his mind with all the commotion. "Very well," Byakuya states, maintaining his usual stoic expression. He hides his pleasure well enough. His moment of mixed clarity, however? Not so well.

"I take it that Rukia has not mentioned it to you," Jūshirō observes astutely.

"No. I have not seen her since this morning."

The Captain of the Thirteenth smiles politely. "I will let her break the news, then." He gives a small brotherly nod of his head before turning to Ginjirō. "Congratulations are also in order for you as well! On opening your new business."

Oh, yes.

The sunglass emporium.

Byakuya remembers Ginjirō speaking of the enterprise endlessly one day. Out of a sense of pity (or, perhaps, self-preservation), Byakuya donated seed money to Ginjirō under the artifice of a "Vice Captain's bonus." (No such thing exists.) However, only a piece of him brims with satisfaction at the news of the business's opening. A larger part of him wishes the business were a more sensible one. Who wears those aesthetic abominations, anyway?

"Sunglasses, eh?" Jūshirō asks, encouragingly.

"Yes, Captain."

"I will have to stop in when I get the chance."

"I would be greatly honored, Captain. Thank you." Ginjirō bows low, careful to express the full amount of his gratitude.

Jūshirō's gaze then darts back to Byakuya. "Where is your fairer half?"

Byakuya is just wondering the same question.

With a sharp gaze, he scrutinizes the mass of bodies that assembles in the center square. It is a zoo. An absolute zoo, but, despite the waves of familiar and unfamiliar spiritual pressure crashing over him, he zeroes in on the unmistakable prickle of his wife's power signature. Narrowing his gaze, he finds her socializing with a small group of women. Hisana is speaking merrily with one of Jūshirō's younger sisters until she is interrupted by…

Byakuya crooks his neck a degree to spy the object of his wife's interest.

Captain Sōsuke Aizen?

He immediately questions his perception. Focusing his gaze, he finds his first assessment correct. It is Aizen. The telltale captain's haori with the number "Five" emblazoned on the back unambiguously marks her new companion as the Captain of the Fifth.

How strange, he thinks to himself as he watches his wife hand Mihane to Jūshirō's sister.

Hisana turns to Aizen with an uneasy look. It is not apparent to most. No, indeed, her expression of apprehension is likely inscrutable to all but Byakuya, but he can tell by the darkness in her gaze and the drop in her shoulders that she is perturbed.

However, before Byakuya can determine what will happen next, his line of sight is obscured by none other than Gin Ichimaru.

"Congratulations," both Jūshirō and Ginjirō greet with pleasant voices and equally pleasant expressions.

Byakuya, however, remains reticent to acknowledge Gin's interruption. Instead, he glances around the newly minted Captain of the Third, but, alas, his wife has all but disappeared. More worrying is that he cannot detect her _or_ Aizen. "Congratulations, Captain Ichimaru," he murmurs, frustrated at the ill-timed intrusion.

Gin bows his head politely in Byakuya's direction. "To you as well, Captain Kuchiki. It seems that we are in the same class, now."

Byakuya's eyes narrow defensively. He cannot help but scrutinize the words. _Same class_. Obviously, Gin means the same class of Captains, as they both were promoted at the same time. But, there is an implication undulating slightly below his words and betraying the earnestness of his observation.

They are not _equals_, Byakuya reminds himself pointedly. They are hardly _peers_. He, however, does not bother to correct Ichimaru's subtle insult. It would be poor form given the occasion.

"How fortuitous," Byakuya replies instead, his voice edging on caustic.

"Perhaps we can have tea over the first and second round selections tomorrow afternoon," Gin offers; however, his mien belies the disingenuousness of his proposal. "Without a Vice Captain, the Third seems so _lonely_."

"Doesn't that sound _lovely_, Little Byakuya?" Jūshirō interjects, immediately cutting the tension with his wry levity. "Going through those applications alone can be so taxing."

Byakuya glares at his _former_ confidant.

No. Spending an afternoon locked away to sort through tedious applications and statistics with Gin Ichimaru or anyone, for that matter, does not sound _lovely_. It sounds the _opposite_ of "lovely." It sounds _wretched_.

"I am planning on making my selections tonight," Byakuya states firmly.

_In the comfort of my estate, with my doting wife playing music to soothe my tortured nerves._

His diversion, however, greatly amuses Gin; the man's smile, if possible, lengthens, and he buries a chuckle in the hems of his sleeves. "Perhaps another time, then?" his smiling eyes skim the top of his sleeve.

Absolutely not.

"Perhaps," Byakuya musters unconvincingly.

"Where is Captain Aizen?" Jūshirō asks before scanning the throng of party-goers.

No matter Gin's current affiliation, his association with the Fifth will always be fresh in everyone minds, an indelible memory: Wherever there is Gin Ichimaru, there is Sōsuke Aizen. The two have been inseparable for over a century.

"Enjoying the flowers, I believe," Gin answers in his slow Rukon drawl.

* * *

"The Central 46 Chambers reserved you for an ethics consult?" Hisana tries her best to remove the mixture of confusion and skepticism from her voice. She knows she failed when she sees Aizen's gaze flicker to her for the briefest of moments.

"You sound surprised," he observes serenely.

Yeah, she is _surprised_. It seems unlike the Central 46 to meddle in the affairs of the highborn. (Or, in her case, highborn consorts.) Stranger, yet, they chose to meddle by proxy.

"I did not realize any of the projections or analyses required ethical consultation." They didn't. At least, using the Twelfth's behavior as precedence, the Central Chamber plays fast and loose with _ethics_ or _human rights _for that matter.

Aizen offers her a comforting smile. "I believe there was some concern regarding your plans to build infrastructure in portions of Rukongai."

_Interesting_. "What may that concern be, Captain Aizen? If you don't mind my asking."

He hesitates for a moment.

"Assuming such information isn't privileged, of course," Hisana notes gently.

"I don't believe it is confidential or privileged, Lady Kuchiki. I think some members expressed concern regarding the analytics system that will be used to monitor traffic and particular 'hot spots,' as they termed it."

Hisana's brows knit together at this. Collecting information on the population density, immigration, and aggression levels does not seem particularly _unethical_. The method of data collection is also harmless—an electronic monitoring system, the blueprints of which the Konoe family _generously_ promises to draft up for their engineers.

"How strange," she murmurs, pensive.

"It is likely they will require information on the device you plan to use."

"Devices," she corrects. "Towers, to be specific."

Aizen's brows rise at this. "Ah, I see there may be blueprints?"

Hisana shakes her head. "Not formal ones. You would need to speak to Tadahiro Konoe about the monitoring system."

"If I may ask, what is the purpose of this proposal, Lady Kuchiki?" Aizen's gaze hovers over her, and, for a moment, she swears there is heat in his look, but, when she checks her assumption, she finds that he is wearing a very tranquil expression.

"It is to expand enterprises into Rukongai," her voice is soft but clinical. No life flows through her words, and no heart throbs in her cadence at the pronouncement.

"Is that your purpose for participating, Lady Kuchiki?" he asks quietly, knowingly.

A sly glint shines in her gaze, and her lips curve into an impish grin. "I desire to expand my family's reach, Captain Aizen. Any consequence to Rukongai is merely a side-effect of my wish to honor my husband."

Aizen doesn't believe her. She can tell from the smirk that he so expertly attempts to hide. Not that she blames him. She didn't find her performance particularly convincing either.

"Ah, I see," he murmurs and thoughtfully pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "It is merely the doctrine of double effect at issue, then."

Hisana represses the urge to sigh. As long as the pursuit of financial betterment is their priority, the foreseeable but _unjust enrichment_ of the poor is morally licit. _Only the nobles could find the purposeful enrichment of the poor and vulnerable to be a serious infraction, worthy of intense scrutiny and contempt._ _Doctrine of double effect_, she scoffs inwardly. _To the contrary._

Pushing her violent thoughts aside and mollifying her enflamed temper, she musters a teasing smile. "Now, you sound like my husband, Captain Aizen."

"High praise," he chuckles, "Captain Kuchiki is regarded as a paragon of high moral virtue."

She smiles, but, before she can extend a word of gratitude, a booming male voice rolls over them like a thunder clap. She freezes for a cold panicked moment, and, then, she turns to the direction from which the voice emanated. "Lord Takatsukasa and Lord Konoe," she murmurs, bowing low.

"We should join them," Aizen urges politely.

Hisana frowns at the prospect. Taking a deep breath, she nods her head and begins in the direction of the clan heads. "It is so lovely to see you both after such a productive day," she says with an effortless smile. "Captain Aizen," she begins, gesturing to her new companion, "informs me that the Central 46 has commissioned an ethics survey for our proposal."

She turns to glance up at Aizen. Part of her expects some sort of reaction on his part, but he stands politely acknowledging each lord in kind. "Lady Kuchiki is correct in her understanding."

Both Takatsukasa and Konoe exchange veiled glances. "We were going to have drinks with several of the administrative staff members of the Central 46, if the two of you would like to join our small party, we would be honored," Takatsukasa offers, eyes fixing on Aizen.

Translation: The men were going to discuss business and, potentially, have a few drinks.

Hisana's eyes immediately survey the crowd for her husband. Part of her—the sinking part of her—thinks his presence is required. It is his family business, after all. _And…_

"Perhaps Captain Kuchiki should," Aizen begins, reading Hisana's troubled glance.

Hearing his voice, her head snaps up, and her eyes search the captain's visage, but his glasses catch some stray lantern light and the glare blinds her.

"No," Tadahiro Konoe murmurs, watching Hisana with a predatory stare. "It is quite alright. Shiba is away on duty as well. The Lady will suffice for tonight."

Aizen bows his head, but Hisana is sure the captain, ever astute and renowned for his intellect, caught hints of the subtle fault line that undulate between the business partners. The sudden fracture is plain as day to her, at least.

Hisana casts one last pleading stare in her husband's direction, but he does not detect her. He does not flinch. He does not turn to her.

How she wishes he would.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks so much for reading!

**Rose Attack:** While I wouldn't say that _Stages_ is a precursor to the current fic, I definitely think Hisana's personality and origin story is more in line with _Stages_ than _So Far Away._


	9. The Struggle

**Summary:** Rukia reflects on her life at the Kuchiki estate. Byakuya inquires about Rukia's position at the Thirteenth Division. Hisana and Byakuya discuss Captain Aizen's involvement in the family's business affairs. Byakuya confronts Hisana about her health.

* * *

**The Struggle**

Searching.

Rukia's eyes are searching. Always searching. She feels lost sometimes in the labyrinthine estate. The space is so _grand_ and she so _diminutive_.

It feels _oppressive_.

She never thought it possible to find expanse oppressive. Not after living in Inuzuri, where the lack of space stifled the spirit and kept a hunger burning hot in their bellies. The small poorly constructed bivouacs were not fit enough for one person, and yet they managed to cram inside five, sometimes eight, people.

Those were the days, she thinks somberly to herself.

At least, then, she had a place; she had a modicum of autonomy; and, she had carved out a name for herself, her identity cut deep into stone. The struggle was palpable—always nipping at her heels and threatening to end her—but there was warmth. There was a feeling of being part of something, of _belonging_. And, while that feeling may not have always been sure or fixed or stable, it was _something_. It was _honest_.

Now, she has empty halls, strange protocols that require her to don even stranger affectations, duty, honor, and the constant icy chill of judgment blowing at her back.

She still has some warmth, though.

Renji.

Sister.

She isn't starving. She isn't threadbare and barefoot. She isn't homeless. But, she isn't in charge anymore. Far from it.

She still has the struggle, though. It is of a different ilk, now. A change in circumstances brought about its metamorphism, but it remains ever present, ever constant, and only ever an arm's length away.

Her struggle has become more complicated, she thinks. What is required of her is strange and ineffable, but it haunts her halls and the winding pathways of her mind. It keeps her on edge even when she should be at peace. It is freedom on a gilded leash. It is power, diluted and bladed. It is the breath of failure skating down her neck.

She isn't ungrateful; however, the unearned perks make her feel impotent. It makes her question the validity of her successes, and this uncertainty undercuts every feat. Did she receive the Fifth Seat position because of merit or influence? If not for Brother, would she have become a Shinigami? Renji will never have to consider these questions. If he fails, it is all him. If he succeeds, it is all him. For him, it is pure, simple, and clear-cut.

Renji doesn't understand.

He thinks she has it _all_—riches, power, and family. From his perspective, she's struck the cosmic lottery. Every time he sees the enormity of the estate and the vast power and influence her title carries, his face lights up. Every time he catches her with her sister or brother, he smiles winsomely for her.

She wishes she could borrow some of his enthusiasm or his ear, but she doesn't have the heart to crush his fantasies, whimsical and imaginative. She does not tell him of her loneliness or the crushing burden of living up to high expectations. She does not burden Renji with her worries. Never would. Never has. Couldn't fathom doing such a thing. He wouldn't understand, and, rightly, he would find her concerns to be trifling—or worse, a slap in the face.

Sister understands, she thinks.

Hisana understands better than anyone else, but Sister is always very deliberate with her words; they conceal more than they express outright. There is always something hidden and mysterious simmering right beneath the surface—something that Rukia wishes to clarify, but she never finds the courage to inquire. She thinks her sister wouldn't mind explaining, but, then, the explanation would be equally as vague, wouldn't it?

Rukia turns her head. Her eyes trail from her writing desk, which is littered with hastily penned doodles of cartoon rabbits and bears, to the tatami. Her inky silhouette stretches across the floor, beginning at her knees and creeping up a nearby wall.

Her gaze lingers. Long and hard, she scrutinizes the contours and the midnight black color. She can't help but notice just how small the attenuated shadow is in comparison to the space that confines it.

_Crack._

A knuckle raps against her door. Its strength and quickness tells Rukia that it is the steward. The languor in the rebound of his knock convinces her that the matter is not pressing so she turns back to her desk.

"Yes," she answers softly, and she wonders what brings him to her room at such an early hour.

"The Lord and Lady request your presence, Lady Rukia."

Her muscles reflexively clench, and she nods to herself. Anything to conjure her strength. "Yes," she murmurs.

She knew it would come. They would want to know her results. She just hopes they will be pleased.

Sister will be pleased, she thinks. As Renji observed the night before, Sister is always pleased. Rukia could announce her desire to join a traveling actor's troupe, and Hisana would give her full support.

Brother, on the other hand, is more exacting. Of everyone. Even Hisana. He expects duty, honor, and, above all else, obedience. He expects _perfection_, and this expectation pushes Rukia to be better, but it also mortifies her.

It is so easy to fall short. Too easy. Sometimes, Rukia feels that all she does is fall short. She is _wanting_—too young, too unlearned, too uncultured, too dull, and too weak.

So, with her heart thundering in her chest and with her pulse ringing in her ears, she stands. In a fluid motion, she is across the room. "I am coming," she announces shortly before she pulls back the panel. She bows to the steward, an act that once unnerved him, but, now, he expects it.

Ever mindful of their relative statuses, the steward reciprocates Rukia's gesture with a lower bow. "Come, milady, his Lordship and her Ladyship wait in the Flower Room."

Rukia nods as if she understands. It's a lie. She doesn't know where the "Flower Room" is or _what _it is. In fact, she did not know such a place existed until _now_.

"Yes," she replies, and she is grateful when he leads the way.

In the usual manner, he announces her arrival, and she kneels outside the threshold of the room. Carefully, she opens the door and waits for Byakuya's instruction for her to enter.

She always hates entering the room when Brother is present. With Sister, she is less diligent with the prescribed protocol. Rukia thinks Hisana's leniency stems from her sister's guilt; Hisana finds the protocol wasted on her because she feels underserving of such respect. It doesn't help that the other family members are quick to remind Hisana of her _luck_ and of their _misfortune_.

Brother, however, comes from this world. He is mired in its traditions, and he expects conformity. Rukia knows this because she watches Sister. She has memorized every one of her sister's movements upon entering a room, from which hand to use when and where to the number of steps it takes to shuffle into the room.

This mental recording plays in her head, and she follows it to perfection: Her fingertips gently slide the door open the length of a forefinger. Placing the same hand on the frame, approximately nine inches above the floor, she slides it open halfway. Gracefully, she switches hands and opens it the rest of the way.

Mindful of her body and her balance, she slides across the threshold, and she is just as meticulous about closing the door.

One small glance into the chamber is all she needs to know where to go. There is a spare cushion set opposite of her siblings. A small table separates them from her, Rukia notes.

A buffer.

Rukia doesn't think it is intentional. They certainly are not distancing themselves from her as punishment. It is tradition, a cold emotionless tradition to which nobles cling with white knuckles for _stability_.

Rukia never had much use for _stability_ or predictability, for that matter. It is a revelation that she has unearthed about herself since arriving at the manor.

Upon sitting on the cushion, Rukia bows again, just as her sister does during formal occasions, with arms stretched forward and fingertips pressed lightly against the floor. Through the strands of hair that fall forward, she searches her sister.

_Always searching_.

If she looks too quick or too carelessly, she catches glimpses of herself in her sister. It is quite remarkable, actually. Hisana is nearly her mirror image. There are subtle differences, however, Rukia reminds herself. Hisana's hair trails down her shoulders whereas the ends of Rukia's tresses barely kiss the tops of her shoulders. Hisana stands a head taller; her complexion paler; her eyes violet; and, she has long shed the gangly limbs and physique of adolescence that Rukia still possesses.

Yet, the servants continue to confuse them.

Brother never has.

Rukia doubts he ever will. Not once has her presence elicited the same sort of response in him that her sister seems to inspire. Likely, he finds their differences too stark, too jarring. Briefly, she wonders what he thinks of the individuals who mistake them. Nothing good, she can only imagine.

"Rise, Rukia," Byakuya states in a cool deadpan intonation. His look is even cooler, almost bored, as he acknowledges her. His visage is smooth, not a single wrinkle or crease mars his ageless features.

Rukia bows her head and tries to quell the fluttering in her stomach. Despite his tutoring, she cannot help but notice the gulf that separates them. He is strong, noble, and elegant. He is the master of his domain, and she is a mere guest, or worse, a _project_.

He isn't as remote on the training field, Rukia recognizes. No, he is serene and caring when he instructs her. But, tearoom etiquette is much different from battle training.

She prefers her brother, the Tutor, to her brother, the Head of the House.

Reflexively, Rukia's gaze snaps up to Hisana, who sits a few feet to Byakuya's left. The physical distance between the couple is small, likely only two paces, but there is a cold professionalism between them, one that stands in violent contrast to what Rukia witnessed the night before.

Indeed, Hisana sits at her husband's side not as his consort or lover but as his dutiful Second.

Hisana acknowledges Rukia with a small bow of the head and a warm gaze, but her body language is rigid. Her back is ramrod straight, and she holds her head high as if she is a queen. Indeed, the pair looks quite stately, very official and very detached.

"You have news," Byakuya's voice tears through Rukia's thoughts like a warm blade through butter.

Again, Rukia searches her sister, but Hisana's features are enigmatic. She might as well be wearing the thick white paint of a kabuki actor because her role as Lady requires her to hide her inner thoughts, whatever they may be. She does not flinch or make the smallest of motions. No smile. No knowing glint radiating in her eyes. No hints, whatsoever.

Byakuya could be prepared to crown Rukia Queen of Soul Society, or he could be prepared to slit her throat. Rukia is none the wiser.

"Yes," Rukia begins, her voice quavering. She lowers her head, and her eyes drop to her lap where her hands ball together. "I received my rank at the Thirteenth Division."

_Silence_.

Rukia is unsure if she should continue or if she should wait. Often, she chooses to wait. Byakuya will encourage her to speak if he wishes it, which he does: "What position did you obtain?"

Keeping her eyes fixed on the deep umber-colored threads of her kimono, Rukia answers with a meek, "Fifth Seat." Inwardly, she cringes, but she refrains from making any stray movements. Force of will keeps her muscles tight and locked.

"Congratulations, Rukia," Byakuya states, and, for a moment, his mask of impassivity drops, and she thinks she can hear the swell of pride in his voice.

"Thank you, Brother. I could not have achieved this honor without your and Sister's support. I wish I could express my gratitude with more than words." Indeed, she wishes she could put the intense strumming in her heart to words, but her mental faculties fail her as soon as she lifts her gaze to meet his.

_Bad move_. In a second, she sits frozen in _absolute horror_. In fact, she is sure her body temperature plummets to _absolute zero_.

"You can," Byakuya replies in a low tenor.

Rukia's eyes flit up, and her chest clenches, strangling the breath rising up her throat.

"Honor the family through your accomplishments at the Thirteenth Division," he continues.

Rukia nods excitedly.

_Of course, I will_.

She does not speak the words, but they sprawl across her face for him to read with ease. "Yes, Brother. I will," the words come spluttering gracelessly from her lips, but she recovers with a bow. It isn't the bow that her sister taught her. No, it is the bow of an Inuzuri peasant, betraying her meager status and breeding.

Byakuya does not startle at her inelegance. He stares down at her with that indescribable distant look lodged in his eyes. The unreadable one. The one that provokes fear and dread. "You are dismissed, Rukia."

"Yes, Brother."

Hisana does not speak a word. She merely watches as Rukia scurries out of the room, tangled in the web of her thoughts and strangled by etiquette. When the door clacks shut, Hisana turns to her husband.

He is in a mood, she observes silently to herself.

She does not pursue it. It is no use, she tells herself. He will express his concerns when he is good and ready.

Instead, she refreshes his tea and her own.

Silence, tense and steady, wraps them in a vice grip. The grip tightens with each passing moment until the weight of the words they swallow back threatens to asphyxiate them.

"You spoke at length with Captain Aizen," Byakuya murmurs into his cup.

_Thank the gods,_ she sighs inwardly, grateful that her husband pierced the cruel silence.

Remembering herself, Hisana's large eyes focus on him, and she responds, initially, with a nod of her head. "That is correct. He approached me to discuss the proposal's ethical considerations."

"Ethical considerations?" Another sip, and Byakuya gives her an incredulous sidelong glance. With considerable effort, she thinks, he sweeps away any trace of emotion from his eyes and mien.

Again, she nods her head. "Over the monitoring technology."

Briefly, she stares into her cup. The steam begins to thin until she can see her own reflection. Pensive and a touch worried. "I thought it was strange. Do the 46 Chambers frequently commission an ethics consult for business investments?" She has a niggling feeling that the answer is "no."

"Usually, the Central Chambers are not permitted to interfere in the business arrangements among the nobility," he states matter-of-factly, but his gaze betrays him. He stares distantly ahead as if he is sorting through some complex algorithm to which she is not privy. "However," he begins, methodically, "the Central 46 may intervene in the affairs of a noble family where treason is suspected or a possibility."

"Treason?" Hisana echoes in disbelief. Her eyes widen, her brows furrow, and she feels the cold sting of breath catching against the back of her throat. "Since when has industrializing Rukongai become a treasonous offence?"

"It is treason for any citizen to create weapons of a dangerous nature not sanctioned by the Central 46," he murmurs as if to himself. Clearly, he is trying to work through the logic and merits of such an accusation, and he comes up _wanting_.

She does, too.

Taking a long sip of her tea, Hisana shakes her head. "The monitoring system is not a weapon," she states defensively as if he raised the argument himself.

"Could it be weaponized?" This time he glimpses her, unguarded. Concern clouds his gray eyes, and his lips purse ever so slightly.

_Could it?_ she wonders to herself. _Indirectly, perhaps_, she thinks as various hypotheticals dance in her mind.

"Perhaps it has some militaristic applications," she concludes after exhausting her mental catalogue, "but it could not be wielded as a weapon directly because it cannot physically harm anyone. At most, it could yield potentially advantageous information. With requisite infrastructure, perhaps, one could keep track of souls and quickly apprehend criminals before they abscond into neighboring districts. But, such use is unsuitable for our purposes."

His lips slope into a frown at this. "Perhaps it is merely a precaution."

_Since when has the Central 46 ever diligently applied the precautionary principle?_ she scoffs to herself. Yet again, her thoughts fly to the Twelfth and the division's _experiments_, which seem to lack any scrutiny or oversight. If the Twelfth can operate without myriad bureaucratic hurdles, how does this seemingly innocuous piece of information technology merit an ethical inquisition?

"What was Captain Aizen's opinion?" Byakuya asks.

She exhales a small sigh. "He did not say _much_," her voice sharpens at the observation.

On reflection, Captain Aizen's lack of insight perturbs her. What little information that he deigned to reveal was not particularly illuminating. Instead, he mostly listened as Tadahiro described the current blueprints. The project would be handed off to Tadahiro's company's R&D in a few weeks. According to Tadahiro's projections, the technology should be workable in a few years. Until then, the families would begin to "cultivate" the first ten districts.

"His appointment likely prohibits him from speaking in detail about the inquiry," Byakuya notes.

"Isn't it odd that the Central 46 would involve a Captain of the Gotei 13? A lot of blurred lines, no?" To say the least. The cautious separation of powers seems to have been flung out the proverbial window. How odd.

All she needs is to take one look at her husband to know he agrees with her assessment.

"Indeed," he says.

Hisana refills their teacups and relishes the burn of hot liquid against her tongue as she gulps down a mouthful of tea. It sharpens her mind for a moment, and it pulls her thoughts to _other_ fixations. Such as Gin Ichimaru's sudden captainship. "So, Vice Captain Ichimaru," she begins, cocking a brow.

"He is a captain," Byakuya states humorlessly, and he quickly tilts his cup back.

She smiles knowingly.

The tea proves to be a poor cover for his dismay. Not that she disagrees with his assessment. Gin Ichimaru is _unsettling_, purposively so. The thought of him running a division is not particularly reassuring, nor does it make her think highly of the Gotei 13. She will never understand why Captain Aizen appointed Ichimaru as his Vice Captain in the first place. Ichimaru doesn't seem particularly trustworthy—not the sort of man that one would want at his back in dire times.

"Captain of the?" she starts, hoping he will fill in the blank.

"Third."

She nods. "How appropriate."

He lifts his head at this, and a questioning look creases his forehead and bends his brows.

"The insignia is the marigold, right?" she asks, and, when Byakuya does not correct her, she smiles deviously. "Despair," she remarks, stating plainly the flower's meaning.

She can tell he wants to smirk at her observation, but he restrains himself and takes another drink of tea. Placing his cup down, he bows his head slightly, and his eyes focus on the tatami.

Silence once again creeps into the room. It falls heavy, and it seems to thicken the air, making it harder to breathe. At least, that is what Hisana first thinks. Upon feeling her husband's reiatsu beat against her, she realizes the prior discussion is not the source of her husband's foul mood. It was merely a diversion, a red herring.

She decides to abandon her previous method of waiting for him to approach her when his melancholia begins to color his spiritual pressure. She can almost _taste_ his lugubriousness. "Is—"

"When were you going to apprise me of your appointment?" he interjects before she has the chance to complete her question. Hurt flickers in his voice, and his eyes, still glued to the floor, harden.

_So much for medical privacy_.

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment and holds her breath. Anything to restart her heart. How she hates to hear the displeasure in his voice.

"I did not want to worry you, milord," she explains in a long, shaky breath.

It is the truth. He has so much responsibility, so much to worry about. _Important_ things, too. Life and death matters. She doesn't want to preoccupy his mind with the mundane and trivial.

He lifts his head, and he fixes her with a look. Wrath does not reside in his eyes. Not at all. His expression is a fine mixture of concern and disquiet.

_I am so sorry_. She wants to say the words. They sting at her throat, but she pressed her tongue firmly against the roof of her mouth to prevent their escape.

It would be a lie. She isn't sorry she did not inform him. She's only sorry she caused him pain.

Dropping her gaze to her hands, laced tightly in her lap, she tilts her chin up slightly. "I scheduled the last transfusion. They say it will remove the trace amounts of poison that lingers."

Surreptitiously, she eyes him. He stares distantly ahead with furrowed brow and muted grief. _He remembers the last time_.

She remembers the last time, and her heart aches.

_It was…_

She cannot find the words to describe the overwhelming sense of trepidation that breaks over her with the force of a hurricane hammering a shore.

She nearly died the last time. And, how she suffered as she clung to life. Her body handled the transfusions _poorly_. All she remembers is writhing in searing pain. She felt like the Fourth had set her very soul on fire—a slow burning _gas_ fire, at that.

"I thought scheduling it now would be prudent since you and Rukia will be busy with your new obligations." It is an implicit admission that the doctors and healers require her to take her convalescence in solitude.

Her tongue swells in her mouth and her throat goes dry at the thought of facing the brutal treatment _alone_. But, there is no other way. Both Byakuya and Rukia possess a level of spiritual power that could damage her in what will be a severely compromised state.

Pain colors her husband's visage. His eyes darken, and his jaws clench. "You must recover alone, then?" Byakuya asks with great dismay.

"They say it will only be a day. They say it won't be as bad." They say _a lot_ of things, Hisana notes wryly in her head. Sometimes, they are correct. Often times, they are not.

It takes only one glance, and she knows he doesn't believe her. For a moment, she wonders if his skepticism is aimed at _her_ or at the prognosis. It's not like she _hasn't_ lied to him about her condition a time or twenty. She can't quite blame him for his incredulousness, but she prickles at it nonetheless.

"I will be fine, milord."

She hopes.

Their eyes meet. He does not express the grief locked behind his stare, and she does not attempt to mollify his fears. There is no use. Not any more. Not after what they have been through.

He merely takes her hand in his, and he gives it a firm squeeze.


	10. The Firsts

**Summary:** Renji receives his position. Rukia and Byakuya spar, and Rukia makes a surprising discovery. Renji and Rukia compare notes on their respective experiences as rookie officers. Byakuya checks up on his wife.

* * *

**The Firsts**

Howls.

Cries.

Screams.

_Holy shit, the noise is disorienting_.

The loud din swallows Renji. It eats him whole, and it spits him out with nerves sparking across his body and with composure unraveling. He can feel the reverberations of a thousand words, of a thousand sounds, and of a thousand gasps as they ricochet around his innards.

_Ting, Ting, Ting_, the sensations go as they hit the bone and rebound, finding another bone or organ to bounce off.

_Breathe_, he reminds himself. _How does it go? Oh, yeah. In. Out. In. Out._

When had he become such a pussy? he grumbles inwardly.

_In fact, isn't Inuzuri's motto, "Don't be a pussy"?_

He's pretty sure it is.

Either way, he adopted that slogan hook, line and sinker when he lived in the slums. Pretty sure Rukia adopted it, too. It was a way of life. If you were going to survive the South 78th, you _could not_ _be a pussy_: If you were a coward, you died. If you hesitated, you died. If you _thought_ too hard or too long, you died.

Basically, his whole life until _now_ was a giant death trap, where instinct meant _everything_. If you were going to survive the gauntlet that was Inuzuri, you weren't going to do it staring meaningfully into something as trivial as _mail_.

Yet, right then, right there, he does exactly that. Hesitation steels his mind and paralyzes his hands. All he can feel is his heart clapping in his chest, sending ripples of horror throughout his entire circulatory system.

He can barely concentrate.

_Pathetic_, he reminds himself as he tries to center his thoughts on the carefully folded message.

The envelope is white and stark against his tawny flesh. Its artful construction teases him, and his eyes roam the paper, memorizing the eggshell color and the sharp edges.

He flips it over. The seal, a deep red with the Academy crest imprinted in wax, keeps the letter's secret tightly bound.

_C'mon_, he groans to himself.

But, _nothing_.

He cannot conquer the fear that comes with unveiling his destiny. Or, at least, his destiny for the next few years. Hopefully.

Hesitantly, Renji's fingertips brush the seal. With that simple act, he feels as if he has set his whole damn hand on fire, a cold sort of fire. The action provokes a cascading sensation of mortification: His heart flutters a few beats before it begins to race. The blood rushes from his face and limbs until his extremities feel like he has spent an hour digging himself out of an avalanche. His pulse, pounding in his ears, blots out the frantic and kinetic energy that swirls around him.

Now, he knows what Rukia must've felt only a few days ago.

Except, he doesn't have Rukia there to comfort him. Or, family. He has friends, but a nervous look reveals they both stand content with eyes firmly locked on their own marching orders.

_Must've gotten the Fifth_, his inner voice mutters in his head.

Momo's expression is that of pure unbridled _bliss_. He has never seen her smile so purely and unguarded before. In fact, her cheeks turn a bright pink at her discovery.

Izuru, too, seems rather pleased with his results. Although, that doesn't necessarily mean he drew the Fifth, Renji reminds himself. Izuru had a few prime choices with the Fifth being near the top of his list. But, the blond seems his normal cocky self. A smug look spreads across his face as he replaces the notice in its envelope. His gaze then meets Renji's.

"The Fifth," Izuru announces, brows up and smile on. He then gestures to Renji's notice, nodding his head and jerking his chin in Renji's direction. "Your fate, Abarai?" he asks.

Renji's eyes drop back down to that hideous envelope.

_Fate, eh?_

Clenching his jaw, he stares _fate_ in its pale white face. _Might as well be a man_, he jibes himself, feeling a tinge embarrassed he has been so slow to pull the trigger.

He slips a finger under the fold.

A metric ton of adrenaline rushes through his veins, speeding his heart and tensing each fiber and sinew in his body. The anticipation is so thick he can barely focus. His vision goes blurry. He can hardly breathe, and he is pretty sure his hands are shaking as his fingers fumble with the paper.

_Damn it. You better not drop it!_

Unfurling the notice, he stares blankly at the characters on the page. It's written in clear black ink yet he can't comprehend it. His brain short-circuits. He can hear his neurons buzz and click in his ears.

He is pretty sure his body is _humming_. It is an electric sort of humming; the kind that resonates at a constant low frequency. He might as well have taken a seat on a speaker that's volume has been kicked up to eleven.

Suddenly, he feels like his whole body has been kicked up to eleven, which proves all too appropriate as he reads the notice.

"The Eleventh Division."

_Aw, shit_.

* * *

Rukia heaves a heavy sigh as she retreats from a large blast of fire.

_Cripes! I'm not a Vice Captain,_ her thoughts blare in her head as she evades another high-level kido spell. What the hell is her brother preparing her for? A battle against a Menos Grande?

Reflexively, she bites out a mid-level kido incantation to put some space between him and her. It is no use. He pins her hard and fast, and she evades another long-ranged attack just in the nick of time. A hairsbreadth too close and a second too long and she would have been a puddle.

She darts into the forest, flash-stepping from limb to limb. But, resorting to flash step is a fool's errand, and Rukia knows it. Very few—maybe certain members of the Stealth Force and some of the elder captains—could match the breakneck speeds of Byakuya's flash step.

Rukia certainly cannot.

_What has gotten into him?_ She wonders as she comes to a complete stop, realizing that changing pace will buy her a few precious seconds.

_Is it because…_

Before she has the chance to finish her thought, she deflects a melee attack with a well-timed counter.

At least hand-to-hand combat suits her better; although, her brother-in-law's swordsmanship outclasses her own, he is quicker to adjust for skill level.

_He expects a lot out of my kido_, she thinks to herself between moves and countermoves.

_I wonder if_…

With a startling clarity, Rukia considers if he is pushing her to the brink for a _reason_.

_No way. He wouldn't think… Me? _

She misses, and, for a moment, her heart is in her teeth. She can almost feel it beat against her tongue. Muscle memory saves her from a particularly devastating blow, and she dodges.

It isn't pretty, but that's the point.

Reflexively, her hand grips her hilt. Panic, cold and swift, courses through her, and she swears she feels her body temperature drop several degrees. She is almost…_freezing_. Shivering.

A whisper tugs at her ear, but she brushes it off as nothing more than the wind. Indeed, between nature and the beating of Brother's and her reiatsu, the trees are swaying violently. Their leaves, the color of rust, crimson, and amber, rustle and fall.

Another attack, and she is on a knee. Her palms press tightly against the brown stitching of the hilt of her Zanpakutō. She nearly has each thread memorized; their imprints etch into the sensitive flesh of her hand.

_Come on,_ she thinks to herself as she summons another spell. "Hadō #4. Byakurai," she cries as she blindly flings it into the ether. To the surprise of absolutely no one, it careens wildly to the left, missing Byakuya completely but decimating a poor unsuspecting tree.

Byakuya, however, appears vaguely amused at her lack of precision.

"Do not fear it, Rukia," he murmurs, sheathing his sword. His eyes drop to her Zanpakutō, which he gives a meaningful onceover.

Trembling, she shares his look. _What the…? _ Narrowing her gaze, she makes an astonishing discovery: The metal of her blade has begun to frost. Granular flecks of ice begin to flake from the steel near her guard.

_What is this?_

It takes every ounce of her resolve to keep her hand from dropping her blade. She comes close, but she clenches her hilt with in white-knuckle grip. Lowering her head, she carefully returns her sword to its sheath.

In a second, her mind is a blur. Nothing makes sense, but she has a sinking feeling. Her stomach churns, and her lips part. Shaking, she glimpses her hands. Her fingers sting and they are red as if she has been playing for _hours _in snow without gloves. But, it isn't winter. It's autumn. And, it isn't even cold. In fact, the weather is unseasonably temperate.

Confusion darkens her face, bends her brows, and pulls her lips into a tight compact line. Tentatively, she inclines her head and stares wide-eyed at her brother. The question that colors her face is easily discernable: _What just happened?_

Byakuya studies her state of disarray for a moment. His look is an intense one; his slate gray eyes are keen but understanding. He stands tall, looming over her slight frame, but he regards her with concern. The concerned look isn't purely _familial_, but it isn't strictly _professional_, either. It is a sweet combination—the cross between a brotherly superior to a novice officer. Kaien brandishes the exact expression when he instructs her.

"Listen closely, Rukia," Byakuya says softly, all the while eyeing her Zanpakutō. "She is trying to tell you something important." He bows his head politely and waits for her to regain her composure.

_She? As in…?_

It feels like she has run headfirst into a sturdy wall when realization pummels her like a tidal wave.

"Yes, Brother," Rukia makes up for her moment of dumbstruck in a hurry. Her consonants slur in her excitement and in her eagerness to convey her gratitude. Equally as harried, she scrambles to her feet in a flurry of flailing limbs and graceless motion. Upon standing, she bows deeply at her waist.

She rises as soon as she feels the cold chill of his wake. His robes ruffle on the stray breeze that catches them.

Turning on his heel, he pauses but only for a moment, and he gives her a matter-of-fact, "Come, I will return you to the Thirteenth."

Wordlessly, she trails behind him. A deluge of thoughts and questions surge through her brain, but she is swift to throw down the floodgates. She keeps her lips pressed tightly together, and she hangs her head, too afraid that her bright eyes might betray her.

The journey back to Seireitei isn't very long. They are only in the Third District, after all. But, the trek is taken in an uneasy stillness. Not uneasy for Rukia, who has become accustomed to minding her Ps and Qs in the company of silence. No, the strange dissonance emanates solely from her usually reserved brother.

The quiet begins to weigh on her. It grows heavy, and it plucks a discordant note on her nerves. Unable to take it anymore, her breath escapes the barrier of her lips, and she asks, "Have you heard any news, Brother?" Her voice quivers slightly in the air as she prepares for his indifferent reception.

He shoots her a short sidelong glance. "I expect news tonight," he says bluntly.

Rukia's gaze floats to the ground, and her brows pull together. Boldly, her lips part, and she feels her vocal cords begin to tingle. The vibrations rising from her chest tickle her throat, but she covers the question burning in her mouth with a small dry cough.

Byakuya reads her cough well. "If you wish, you could take tea tonight at the Sixth."

Rukia's eyes widen and light up at the offer. "Yes, Brother." She halts and bows at his back.

"I will send a courier once I receive word."

* * *

"You look like you took a hard fist to the face!"

Renji falls back into a soft pillow of clover, and he sighs. "Yeah, _Rukia_, that's because I took a punch to the face." He adjusts an icepack against his swollen eye and heaves an even deeper sigh.

He can almost _hear_ her smile.

"Looks pretty bad," she teases.

"Feels pretty bad," he retorts.

He hears the soft rustle of grass as she plops down beside him. Her head is a few short centimeters from his own, and he can feel the weight of her hair settle against his. He lifts his chin up enough to see that, indeed, their red and black tresses tangle among the weeds.

"You don't look so hot yourself," he kids her in a caustic tenor.

She inhales a sharp breath and feigns indignation. "What do you mean by that?"

"You look a little rough around those nice noble edges of yours."

She tilts her head back enough to give him a haughty glare. "My _noble _edges are as smooth as ever, Renji."

He cocks a brow. He is incredulous. _No one's edges are smooth,_ he thinks to himself, _Not after the first week, at least_. But he digresses. There is no use in debating with Rukia when she has so clearly dug in her heels. "So how is life at the Thirteenth?" He figures it will be a nice change of pace. Idle chatting tends to provide therapeutic distraction.

"Ugh," a noncommittal noise draws from the pit of her throat. "Well, on the first day, I was promptly ushered into a room like I was made of glass. When I told the guy to treat me like a normal soldier, he got sort of flustered and assured me that he would."

_Then, a bunch of foot soldiers gathered outside the door and began to wonder aloud whether I received the Fifth Seat through skill or noble game playing…_

Rukia chooses to spare Renji the latter, and she begins again, "Then, I managed to offend my Vice Captain."

A harsh chuckle erupts from Renji's chest. "You did _what_?" This requires intense scrutiny, he decides, and he promptly rolls over on his side and props himself up on an elbow.

"Yeah, Vice Captain Shiba gave me this nice greeting, and I just stared at him and said something…_stupid_. He then excoriated me for my poor greeting."

"Whoa, back up. What stupid thing did you say?"

While the question sounds a little _too_ voyeuristic for her liking, she obliges him all the same. "I think I gave him this look," she says, lifting her head and shooting Renji one of her patented deer-caught-in-the-headlights gazes, "and said something like, 'Yes, hello.'"

Renji shakes his head at her. "Good job, Rukia," he mocks. "Did you take his order, too, while you were at it?" He then bats his eyes in the most exaggerated attempt at feminine coyness that Rukia has ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

She gives a small guttural growl. "Okay, okay, I admit it was weak," she capitulates, throwing herself back down on the cushion of clover. "But, his corrections were…"

"Horrifying?" Renji cuts in.

Rukia shakes her head. "No, not at all. It was _refreshing_. It felt nice to be spoken to like the brat that I was being."

"I speak to you like you're a brat all the time," Renji observes matter-of-factly.

"Yes, Renji. Your level of disrespect _is_ breathtaking," her voice dips into a long acerbic drawl, and she gives him a sharp tug on a red lock of hair.

He winces slightly, but he meets her reply with a playful rumble.

"I did get to go to the World of the Living," she adds proudly.

"How was that?"

She pauses for a moment, but her mental banks are empty. "I don't really remember. Must've not been anything _too _interesting," she concludes, pretending that her loss of short-term memory does not bother her. "So, how is the Eleventh treating you?" she asks.

He turns his head and stares at her in disbelief. "Have you seen my face?" he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

She tilts her head up and observes him with a gentle look. "Black eye, swollen jaw, and a split lip. Looks _festive_," she snarks in a cool deadpan.

"On _my_ first day, the Third Seat informs thirty of us new recruits that they have three seats open, and, if we want one, we have to fight for our place. It was like throwing a ham hock into a pack of starving dogs."

Rukia's brows rise at this. "What?" Color her shocked.

"Ten guys wound up being hauled out on stretchers, three guys up and resigned that day, and I got a broken jaw, busted lip, black eye, and the Sixth Seat."

"Good job!" In her excitement, Rukia springs up and lightly punches Renji's shoulder.

_Bad idea._

He immediately responds by curling into a ball of agony. A sad cry of anguish falls from his lips, and pain creases his visage.

"Oh, no, are you alright? I didn't mean…. I am…. So…sorry," she stutters as she gently rubs the spot where she jabbed him.

"No, no," he replies in a throaty and broken voice. "I also fractured my clavicle."

"Did you go to the Fourth?" she asks, concern clouding her eyes.

He shakes his head. "The Eleventh isn't exactly copacetic with the Fourth," he forces out in a small wheezy breath.

Her brows knit together at this revelation. "What?" That doesn't make _any _sense. Who isn't on good terms with the unit in charge of keeping you healthy? That sounds preposterous to borderline _insane_.

"Yeah. Something about kido users and weakness. I don't ask the questions or make the rules, I just play along." _Or face having a foot shoved up my ass_, but he omits the last part.

Rukia gives a small grunt and a long shake of her head. Reluctantly, she scoots closer to her childhood companion. "Oh, Renji," she mumbles with an air of profuse disapproval before she rolls up the sleeve of his Shihakushō. "Here," she grumbles before applying healing kido to his wound.

After a few moments, she scrutinizes his shoulder. Her lips pull to the side as she inspects her work. "Pretty good, if I do say so myself," she announces happily.

The relief in Renji is instant. His muscles relax, and he rolls onto his back. "Thanks," he says, releasing the air clenched inside his lungs in a long exhalation.

Rukia shrugs. "What are friends for?"

Noticing the distant-barely-there look in Rukia's eyes, Renji asks, "So, you going back to the manor?"

Rukia shakes her head. "Can't."

"_Can't_?" he echoes.

It is clear he finds a logical absurdity in her response.

"The manor is under quarantine."

"Is there some sort of infectious outbreak or something?"

A somber look wrinkles Rukia's forehead, and she grimaces. "No. It's Sister," she says in a weedy voice. She then pulls her legs under her, and, with head bowed, her eyes drop to her lap.

Renji's head snaps to the side so that he can better view her. _Something is very wrong_, he observes to himself. "What's the matter with Lady Kuchiki?"

Rukia forces a small smile and shakes her head again.

_She's forcing her feelings away,_ Renji shrewdly notes. He's seen that look a million times. Knows it better than anyone else.

"It'll be alright, Renji."

He doesn't call her out on her lie. He'd only face a perturbed Rukia if he did. But, he _knows_ something serious is afoot. Rukia doesn't say, _It'll be alright_, with _that_ look and with _that_ sad little inflection if things are going to be alright.

"If you need anything," he begins, but her eyes tell him that she already knows.

* * *

"Hisana is recovering," Byakuya reads, glossing over the missive before folding it half. He gives an imperceptible sigh of relief before turning to glimpse his sister-in-law in his peripheral vision.

Rukia's wide eyes sparkle in the dim lantern light. She seems delighted at the news. "Good," she says, exhaling as if she has been waiting with baited breath.

Byakuya turns back to his desk and places the message in a drawer. It will serve as a record of sorts, a painful sort of record. Its words have been seared into his brain, and they flash across his mind's eye at a moment's notice. _Prognosis: Good. Patient is stabilized and resting. The foreign bodies are undetectable at the present time. Checkup and reiatsu analysis required in a week. _

The lack of specifics slightly perturbs him. No mention of how well her body responded to the treatment. No mention of her current condition. It merely states she is stable.

Briefly, he peers through a nearby window, searching for anything to distract him, to let his thoughts idle a little.

The night is dark and moonless. Cloud coverage is thick and obscures the silvery shine of starlight, like a heavy velvet blanket. But, even where there are breaks in the clouds, the stars refuse to twinkle.

How very grim, he thinks. At least it is not raining. Rain would be an ill portent, indeed.

His thoughts are quickly interrupted when he hears Rukia stirring behind him. The soft swishing of fabric tells him that she is growing tired of sitting seiza. He turns his head and gives her a sidelong glance.

She looks weary. Her skin is pale. Dark gray circles hang under her eyes, and her hair is dull from sweat and humidity. Yet, as she stares down into her teacup, she seems at peace. No longer does she sit before him like the frightened or, worse, _whipped_ dog that he knew only a year ago.

"How is your appointment at the Thirteenth?" he asks, observing the small satchel of papers tipped over on its side next to her.

Her gaze rises, but it stops short of meeting his. She still will not look him in the eye. "My first week has been tranquil, Brother."

"I see," he says, letting his gaze return to the paperwork stacked on his writing desk. Unceremoniously, he reaches for another officers' report.

It is going to be a long night, he thinks solemnly to himself, and, suddenly, he does not wish it to be so. "You may stay as long as you wish, Rukia."

Rukia nods. "Thank you, Brother." Her voice climbs a few octaves. She is likely shocked at his invitation. Truth be told, so is he.

Feeling equal parts honored and obligated, Rukia hunkers down and begins to read the massive amount of materials that comes with being the newly recruited Fifth Seat of the Thirteenth Division.

It is a long, dark, and _silent_ night. Even despite his offer for companionship, Rukia keeps to herself. Never speaks a word. Never asks a question; although, at times, he can hear her pause, and he can feel the heat of her gaze on his back. He does not encourage her, however.

When dawn breaks over the horizon, Byakuya arches his head to find his sister-in-law hunched folded over herself and fast asleep. He closes his eyes and represses the urge to say something deprecatory. But, part of him knows such feelings are largely manufactured and do not resound deep inside him. Despite his upbringing and despite knowing better, a warm sense of amusement flows through him as he observes her childlike features, made more childlike in sleep. Briefly, he wonders if this was how Hisana looked when she was in the midst of her gangling adolescent period.

Gently, he scoops Rukia up. Her body is light and pliant against his. He carries her to his freshly made futon, and, as gently as he can manage, he tucks her into bed as a parent does a child. Ever careful not to wake her, he slips out of his room and makes his way to the manor.

It never fails to annoy him at how easy it is to bypass the guards stationed around the estate. Ever since he was a small boy, he could outwit them and pass through the property unnoticed. Even after countless instructions, they still fare no better.

The house staff is far more sensitive to his presence, sometimes unnervingly so. But, at that early hour, he winds his way through the corridors unobserved, and, for this, he is grateful. His wife is a light sleeper, any little noise seems to set her on edge. The last thing he wishes to accomplish is scaring Hisana awake.

Quietly, he slides the door to his wife's quarters open. She lays on a futon in the middle of the floor. Her head is turned toward the wall opposite of the door, but, the instant he crosses the threshold, she rouses.

He is at a loss as to what, exactly, gave him away.

Caught somewhere between the waking world and the world of dreams, she moves her head in the direction of his spiritual pressure as he takes a seat at her side. A few seconds later, her eyelids blink back, and she gazes at him. It is clear that she sees him in the abstract—bleary vision and mental fog cloud her perception—but she smiles warmly all the same.

"Lord Byakuya," she manages in a dry cracking voice.

She is pale as the sheets upon which she rests, and she appears sunken and frail. But, the fire in her eyes burns just as brightly as it did when they first met. The treatment was a worthy opponent, but she managed to out-stubborn it.

Taking her hand in his, he studies her for a few quiet moments. "How are you feeling?"

She closes her eyes. "Better, now." She inhales a few shallow breaths. "A little cold," she murmurs, peaking at him with a sly glint in her eyes. "If you wouldn't mind?"

Before he has the chance to respond, she yanks him down toward her and snuggles against his many warm layers of robes. "Much better," she murmurs. Her lips flutter against his neck with each syllable, sending an electric shock racing from his neck down his spine.

"They say I am all clear, now," she says softly. Her breath ghosts in a warm puff across his skin.

"Good."

"Maybe now…" She glances suggestively up at him, too afraid to finish the thought.

"Perhaps. After your recovery," he cautions.

A small smile thins her lips, and she closes her eyes.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** This concludes Part II of the story. Thanks so much for reading, and, to those that review, thanks a lot! I appreciate it.


	11. Part III: Peripatetic Winds

**Part III: Peripatetic Winds **

_The winter storm  
Hid in the bamboo grove  
And quieted away._

_–__Matsuo Basho_

* * *

**_Approximately 24 years later…_**


	12. The Frost

**Summary: **Hisana checks on the Kuchiki Family's investments. Rukia and Renji catch up. Byakuya and Hisana discuss strategies for the next ethical inquiry. Rukia demonstrates her newly acquired release before her mentors**.**

* * *

**The Frost**

The sun beats down on her in heavy oppressive waves. The sunlight is bright and merciless; it sears the flesh, turning it an enflamed shade of pink, and it heats the body, pulling beads of perspiration from her skin.

Shielding her eyes with her hand, Hisana glances up, skyward. The blinding light hammering her retinas is no match for her ironclad will. She studies the tower looming over her like a curator studies a priceless objet d'art. Indeed, with her gaze and her gaze alone she hopes to exhume the deep secret buried in stone.

To no avail.

She turns up wanting.

Sighing, she refuses defeat. No. She _will_ find the source of her consternation even if it requires her to stand and to stare into that enigmatic black rock for the rest of her long years.

Circling, with eyes laser-focused, she steps into the structure's long inky shadow. Her hand remains against her brow. Just in case.

"Lady Kuchiki," one of the engineers chirps beside her, "are you well?"

She gives him a stern sideways glance. What he means is, _Shouldn't you be running off?_ She turns away, jerking her chin up so she can better view the edifice.

"Tell me," she begins, tossing his question aside, "why does the signal skip?"

_Skip_.

It is the best—no, the _only—_way she can describe the strange but sudden intermittent signal loss that occurs every fifth hour, on the hour. It is the most reliable way of keeping time, she has determined. It is much better at keeping time than any of the priceless clocks in her manor, at least.

Lucky for her, she does not have to elaborate on her nonstandard terminology. The engineer easily comprehends her meaning. "The energy source, milady. Sometimes, it overloads. We are working to create a more efficient generator. It'll fix the problem."

"Umm," she hums to herself, annoyed.

It isn't the engineer who bothers her; although, if he won't stop hounding her about her health, her assessment of him might quickly change. The disruptions in signal and the consequences of those disruptions perturb her. The consequence of the disruptions is, namely, _death_. Lots and lots of _death_. Worse yet, the death is unaccounted, which runs counter to one of the main _purposes_ of having a monitoring system—to detect sources and areas of violent aggression.

_Maybe Lord Byakuya is correct_, she thinks to herself, but her eyes betray her when they remain locked on the tower. _Maybe it is all just strange happenstance? Coincidence._

It wouldn't be too much of a stretch. Violence occurs _everywhere_, and it strikes at any time. If the locals aren't killing each other, then there are hollow attacks, or, worse, government sanctioned _exterminations_. Perhaps it isn't tampering. Perhaps there are no dark machinations at hand. _Perhaps_…

She exhales a shaky breath. "Do we have data before and after these disruptions?"

The engineer nods his head. "Yes, milady."

"Would you mind sharing that data with me?"

His eyes widen to the size of saucers, and the color flees from his face. "All of it?" he asks, incredulous.

She stifles the sigh building in her throat. Must she repeat herself? "All of it," she answers in a clear crisp tone.

It is far too hot to be performing complex tasks such as breathing, let alone _thinking_. Ordering employees around was asking too much of her at the moment.

Tiredly, she rolls her head back, hoping to release the tension pulling the fibers of her shoulders tight, like tiny steel cords. The relief, however, is short lived. Her mind begins to make up for the languidness of her body, and her gaze snaps up. Reflexively, a strange flickering movement catches her attention and drags it away from the tower.

_A cat_, Hisana observes, eyes squinting into the blazing sun.

It is a proud black cat. It sits in its strange feline way with its strange feline sort of confidence atop a straw thatched roof.

If Byakuya were a cat, Hisana thinks, he would be _this _cat. Its fur is shiny. Its muscles are lean. Its eyes are clear and probing as if it is inspecting everything and judging everyone below it.

She always seems to run across it. It is a recent thing, but a thing nonetheless. It lingers near the towers. The cat must find the new construction curious.

_And you know what they say about cats and curiosity..._

She sighs and brushes the stray observation aside.

"Damn cat," the engineer grouses in a harsh tone. He gives an agitated wave of his hand as if his arm could extend out long enough to swat the animal down from its high perch. "Can't keep the thing away from the towers. Don't get it."

Briefly, Hisana wonders why it matters. The cat is an inquisitive observer. Nothing more. Nothing less. It doesn't appear to be harming anything.

Her stare averts from the feline, and it drops to the dry red clay that stretches across the South 38th. Silently, she thinks about generators, signal loss, data, and how to ensure the project's success. Suddenly, all the possibilities, probabilities, and likelihoods begin to swirl in her mind like a whirlwind of petals.

Trapped in thought, she pivots on the balls of her feet. Her eyes don't perceive it, but instinct alerts her to the sizable retinue of servants that waits for her a few paces away. When she finally emerges to the surface of reality, she frowns at the sight of so many guards.

She feels like a prisoner.

Her husband's order comes from a good place. Of that fact, she tries to convince herself. But, a quick glance tells her that Byakuya's paranoia is unsubstantiated. A battalion of Shinigami buzzes around her and the engineers. Half of the men mobilize in some strange procession, looking very professional and very on point. The other half hang back, on reserve.

None of it makes sense to her. Never has. Never will. And she prefers it that way.

All she knows are the towers have proven to be a lightning rod for hollows, which, while convenient for the Squads, is not particularly convenient for the project's sake. A strange symbiotic, relationship, however, has kept the engineers secure and the Shinigami busy and _happy_. Or, at least, this particular group seems happy to face certain battle.

Hisana sighs in dismay before returning her attention to the three servants and the five guards.

How troublesome.

She can barely tolerate the cavalcade of handmaidens and guards that accompany her when she is on official business with her husband. In Rukongai, however, the party makes her look like an easy target. However, her husband insists the attendants escort her _everywhere _ever since she accidently wandered into a hailstorm of kido and steel between hollows and Shinigami.

Come to think of it, the black cat was there then, too.

Reflexively, her eyes flick to the cat. It returns her stare, seemingly having anticipated her gaze. It brandishes a meaningful look, but it is only a cat, she reminds herself.

Briefly, she wonders if it remembers the incident.

_Probably not_.

"Black cats are good luck," Hisana states matter-of-factly as she crosses the cracked, parched ground toward her attendants.

"Really?" the engineer cries in disbelief. "I'm sure this one only brings misfortune on its heels." He sneers at the animal.

Hisana stops, mid-stride. "Why do you say that?"

"Every time anyone sees the damn thing, something —"

An explosion booms in the distance, stealing the breath right out of Hisana's chest.

For stability, she crouches down and places a tentative hand against the ground just in time to feel the earth begin to roll under her palm. A plume of smoke billows across the flat plain. Its wispy tendrils reach out. Initially, its grasp is light and delicate, curling around them, but, within moments, it has the group in a stranglehold.

Hisana opens her mouth and tries desperately to pull air. She struggles, but the impact squeezes the breath from her lungs. It is no use. Everything begins to shake—her body, her bones, even her teeth—as she braces for the outer ring of the shockwave to blast over them.

When it does, it takes every fiber to keep her chest up. She feels as if the burst will crush her, but she manages to create a small protective barrier around herself with the force of her reiatsu. It expends a great deal of her energy, and, once the quaking ceases, she feels as limp and as uncoordinated as a newborn deer taking its first steps.

"What the hell was that?" another engineer calls over the distant thundering roar of the explosion.

Hisana barely catches the question before tinnitus sets in, after which, all she can hear is a shrill high-pitch ringing in her head. Futilely, she tries to muffle the noise with her hands, but it doesn't assuage _anything_.

Minutes, long and trying, pass before she can find the strength to compose herself. With great effort, she rises and takes a few wobbly steps toward her servants, who are quick to steady her.

"Remember that data you promised me," she calls back to the engineer. Or, at least, she _thinks _that is what she said because she cannot hear her own voice through the din in her head.

The engineer nods, but she wonders whether he actually heard her. He stares at her with the wide wild eyes and the vacant look of a baby bird that meets its first predator. Shock has rendered him witless.

Before she leaves, she inclines her head and gazes back to the straw thatched roof.

The cat is gone.

_It is going to be a long day_, Hisana thinks soberly to herself as one of the guards scoops her up and whisks her back to the manor.

* * *

The afternoon sun grips Rukia's attention, and, once it has her, it yanks her to it, like a master snapping a dog's leash.

Biting her lip, Rukia scoots back. _How unusual_, she thinks as she spies her Brother and Sister in the garden. They aren't usually in residence yet.

_Oh, yeah. _She doesn't want to think the words, but they invade her all the same. _They are here because of me…_

She bites her bottom lip, dragging her teeth against the tender flesh in a slow movement. _It'll be fine_, she tells herself, only half-believing the gentle platitude.

In a flash, she feels her armor spring up around her, encasing her in nerves in a fine patina of ice.

She strains her head just enough to peer out the door without looking like she is spying on her siblings. She isn't, she tells herself. She is just enjoying the garden. Yet, her eyes follow her sister and brother-in-law. She can't help it, she tells herself. Their robes catch in the wind, and the couple flutters across the earth with the simple grace of blossoms falling from sakura.

They are so _distracting_.

"What are you _doing_?" Renji's chastising voice booms in her ears, and she immediately springs back as if the door has caught flame.

Her cheeks go scarlet, and her eyes widen.

"Have you become a voyeur or something?" he teases, dropping into a lazy seiza on the cushion across from her.

"I am _not_ a voyeur!" she protests, crossing her arms and quirking a brow at the very idea. A voyeur! She scoffs. Just _whom_ does he think he is to make such pronouncements? And, why must he make them so _loudly_? Doesn't he know the servants can hear him?

"What else do you call someone who peeps on someone else?" he asks into his tea bowl. "Your own siblings, too." He gives a long disapproving shake of his head.

Rukia's expression hardens: Her eyes narrow. Her brows go askew, and her lips twist into a sneer. "I _do not _peep!"

Peeping! She is not a peeper! She was just _observing_ the natural order of…_nature_. Her sister and brother-in-law merely _wandered_ into her line of sight. S'all.

Renji's gaze lifts to her. His look is fleeting, but it conveys his amusement loudly and completely. And, she takes umbrage at it. So much umbrage!

"I was enjoying nature's _majesty_ and sometimes Sister and Brother just get in the way!" she snaps out hastily, jerking her chin up and sighing. "And so what if I watch them sometimes? It's not as if they _know _or _care_."

Renji cocks a brow, and his lips curve into a half-smile. _Go on_, his look practically begs her to continue. _Here's some more rope; hang yourself nicely, now. _

"They kind of look like birds. It's like bird watching," she trills in a flustered cadence.

His eyes go wide. Shock sweeps across his face, contorting the lines of his features. He shakes his head. _Hard_. Casting away the traces of disbelief that color his visage, he levels a bemused look her way. "_Birds_?" His unspoken sentiment: _Are you nuts?_

Rukia's brows lower, and she defensively tosses her head to the side, descrying him with a sharp gaze. "Yeah, _birds_," she repeats, placing extra inflection on "birds."

"Really?" He sets his tea down and gives her a critical onceover.

Clearly, they have moved beyond her alleged peeping activities and are now negotiating spirit animals for her siblings. Rukia is somewhat taken aback that Renji _cannot see it_, especially, when _it_ is so _obvious_.

"Yeah, _birds_. Just look at them," she says, flinging the door to the side with a flick of her wrist. "They are perched there like _birds_ on that _thing_," she says and gestures to the paved bank around the diverted stream. "Watching the water. You know. Like _birds_ do."

Leaning forward, Renji cranes his head to catch an eyeful of the pair. "Yeah," he says in a low breath, "_No._"

He doesn't say it, but she hears it all the same. _Wrong, Rukia. Dead wrong. Wronger than wrong._

"Well, then, _mister_, if not birds than what?" She sets her eyes on stun mode as she watches him. Her chin tucks to neck, and her fingers drum against the sides of her arms as she hugs herself haughtily.

"_Wolves_," he say between sips of tea. Allowing himself a moment to swallow, he elaborates, "Remember those two wolves on the left bank in Inuzuri? We ran into them a few times. They remind me of those wolves."

Rukia's eyes flick from Renji to her siblings. Yeah, she remembers the wolves. How could she forget? They were _horrifying_, sitting there _watching_ their little band of survivors as they fetched water from the river. The wolves never did anything but _watch_ them. But the threat of death was real. Too real.

She shivers.

"I swear they were mates," Renji says, lost in his recollection. His gaze drifts up and to the left. "Remember how they used to lay there, just in the thicket? _Staring_ at us. All curled around each other, _staring_. Always felt like there was an understanding between us."

Rukia shoots him an incredulous glance. "Understanding?" She clearly has no idea what _he's_ talking about. If there had been an _understanding_, she definitely was not a party to it.

"Yeah, like a don't-mess-with-us-and-we-won't-mess-with-you kind of deal?"

Rukia shakes her head. "More like a one-wrong-move-and-you're-my-next-meal kind of deal."

"Nah," Renji says confidently. "Together they could have eaten all of us if they wanted. They didn't. They were just there. Apex predators. Seemed more interested in each other than us."

"So that is Brother and Sister?" she asks, sharpening her glare.

He shrugs. He seems okay with the assessment.

"So, you think they are _monsters_?"

His lips part and his expression goes blank.

"You just called them _monsters_!" she repeats again. This time her voice hardens.

Thinking better of it, he grins and tilts his head to the side. "I don't think it would be the first time someone called them that."

Rukia's jaw goes slack, and she stares at him in surprise. "Renji! You take that back!" In a quick gesture, her hand snaps her folding fan shut, and she playfully smacks his shoulder with it.

He chortles and throws his hands up defensively against her light pummeling. "Take it up with Captain Kurotsuchi!" He catches her fan and smiles wryly as she struggles to free it from his grasp.

She stops for a moment. "Captain Kurotsuchi?" she echoes, clearly confused as to why _he_ would know what Captain _Kurotsuchi_ calls her siblings, let alone _care_.

"Yeah, he called your sister that."

"To her face?" Rukia exclaims. Again, how does _Renji_ know this and _not her_? Of all people. _Renji?_

"Yeah."

"How do _you _know?" she barks. A smirk betokens her skepticism, but she waits for him to continue, biting her tongue all the while.

"Your sister hired me as a bodyguard the other day."

"What?" she cries out in disbelief. This is too much. He is clearly just making things up now.

"Cripes, you two don't talk a lot, do you?" he teases.

Rukia's brows furrow at this. "We do! I was on assignment for the past few days, is all," she spats defensively.

Why would Hisana hire Renji of all souls? Then, she proceeds _not_ to tell her about it? How does that make a lick of sense?

"Well, she was going to the Twelfth to discuss a proposal," he begins, but Rukia is quick to interrupt.

"Wait a minute, you mean Sister went to the Eleventh to fetch _you_ as a guard?" Yep, she can't get over it. Can't even imagine it, really. The Eleventh is a perpetual testosterone-fueled Battle Royale, and Sister is so…feminine and _genteel_, and, basically, the antithesis of the division. No way Hisana _would_ or _could_ waltz into the Eleventh. It would be like placing antique porcelain in a bullpen filled with raving mad _bulls_.

Renji shakes his head and huffs. "No, I was on break and saw her. I went over to say, 'hello,' and she told me that was on her way to the Twelfth."

"So you imposed yourself on her?" Rukia observes, laying the sarcasm on pretty thick.

"_No_. She seemed worried so I _offered_. She gladly accepted, and we went to the Twelfth where she talked about some new gadget that she is working on with the Shihōin and Konoe family. Some monitoring contraption."

Rukia's brows knit together. "Why did she go to the Twelfth, then?" Seems _strange_ to say the least. Hisana is very protectionist when it comes to the family's enterprises. Mingling business interests with the Gotei 13 does not sound like something her sister would do _willingly_ and _unprovoked_.

"I didn't get the sense that she _wanted_ to meet with Captain Kurotsuchi. Seemed like it was the other way around."

"Wait," Rukia states, trying to wrap her head around what Renji is telling her, "So Captain Kurotsuchi requested an appointment with Sister? To discuss some sort of infrastructure-building tool?"

"Sounds like _more_ than an infrastructure-building tool. Or, at least, _he_ thinks it has military R&D applications. She managed to negotiate some contract to limit the Gotei 13's use of the technology." Renji shrugs slightly. "As long as she does not open the door to weaponizing the technology, they can't take it under eminent domain." He takes another sip from his tea bowl. "It was a pretty boring meeting."

Rukia nods slightly. "Uh," she murmurs. "I suppose that is fair."

"Didn't seem like Lady Hisana was too keen on the idea, but she signed on behalf of the Kuchikis. Wonder what Captain Kuchiki thinks."

_Brother_…

As much time as Hisana spends on building the family's interests and maintaining its grip on the emerging trade routes, Rukon infrastructure, and, more importantly, _profits_, Byakuya spends the _inverse_ amount of time on those concerns. In fact, Rukia is sure her brother _despises _the business end of his family duties, assigning almost all of it to Sister. Hisana is very good at it, at least. Her shrewdness is why he can get away with shirking all the responsibility despite his aunt's persistent rebukes.

Briefly, Rukia wonders if there is a cost to her brother eschewing his duties.

Hisana seems content to have a _purpose_ even if it amounts to being little more than the Family's employee of sorts.

But, her sister consorts with only men, and powerful men, at that. It must be a strange and uncomfortable world to navigate. Lonely, too.

Rukia wouldn't trade places with her sister. Not for a second.

"I think Brother is perfectly happy to let her run those things," Rukia replies at length.

Renji frowns into his tea. "Seems like a lot."

"She's a _monster_, remember?" Rukia notes, drily. "She can handle it."

* * *

They walk through the garden together. Her hand presses tightly against his. Their fingers, interlaced. He feels the warmth radiate from her small palms, and it draws him from his dark and troubled thoughts.

He supposes it was her intention.

She is at her steadiest when he wavers. She is at her calmest during his moods, of which there are many. With a warm smile and an even warmer heart, she soothes him. She smoothes down his ruffled feathers without a second thought.

His wife has become a fine detector of sorts. She is sensitive, perceiving his fault lines before the earthquake. She sees the storm before it reaches the horizon. And, even when her best efforts fail her, she is always there for him, never frightened, and ever steady.

She waits with a patient ear for him to begin, and, when he cannot find the words, she is ready to supply the conversation. "I thought the fresh air would prove relaxing."

_Of course_.

She keeps the conversation light, focusing on what surely belies her motives: To bring him peace. She is always trying to cultivate a sense of tranquility for him, from the freshly prepared tea to the quiet melodies that she strums at his request.

She has lost herself, he thinks. So thoroughly has she thrown herself into her duties and into the image of being the perfect wife, she has forgotten why he married her in the first place.

For a glimpse, he catches the woman he married as she tilts her head to the side. Her violet eyes reflect the burnt oranges and yellows of the sun as it begins to dip below the horizon. Her gaze is astute, but it is comforting. She sees him as he wishes to be seen, flaws and all, and she has nothing but love for him, flaws and all.

His heart swells with the strange ineffable feeling that only she ever seems to elicit. It is profuse, overwhelming. It heats the soul, and it provokes the heart.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

He wishes he could find the words. He has been searching for _decades_, trying his best to compose a verse, a sonnet, _anything_, really, that describes the way she makes him feel. But, he always turns up wanting, and he refuses the platitudes that fill his head.

She deserves more.

He lowers his head, and he watches her longingly. "How was your day?" How uninspiring.

Hisana meets his question with a radiant smile. "It was busy." She means it earnestly enough, but, ultimately, the reply falls flat in her delivery.

A prevarication, he observes. The telltale signs are present: Her lips twitch, her eyes trail to the ground, and her brows furrow. She digests her own, likely captious, commentary for his sake.

She is always editing herself.

It is a painful sight.

He wants to remind her of his promise; the one that he made to her so many years ago. _There will be no more debts._ He meant it then, and he means it now.

But, she is stubborn.

"You mentioned there has been signal loss recently," he digresses before silence has the chance to stifle their budding conversation.

She lifts her head and nods. "Yes."

"Have you discerned the cause?"

Her lips press together, and she draws in a long breath. Again, she composes, and, again, she revises. Her small chest expands, and she lets out a long breath. He knows she is structuring her thoughts, sterilizing them.

"Not definitively." Boldly, she fixes him with a probing look. "However, the break in signal is atypical," she says, lowering her defenses just enough to allow him entry.

He seizes the opportunity. "How so?"

"The disruptions do not occur near the towers. The break happens in the middle. It is clean and synchronous, like someone is cutting the threads all at once."

Her gaze darkens, and he notes the worriment building in her stare.

"Every fifth hour, the lines break, rendering the system inoperative for at least 25 minutes." She allows herself a small frown before she finishes her conclusion, "It seems _intentional_."

Byakuya clenches his jaws, and he turns his gaze to the middle distance.

Hisana's assessment concerns him on many levels. While it would explain some of the project's unexpected peculiarities, such as the increase in hollow attacks, it also unleashes a host of problems and questions. If it is intentional, then who is behind the tampering? Why? How long?

These are questions in which he does not wish to involve his wife.

"I would omit that assessment from the ethics inquiry next week," he states matter-of-factly.

Hisana bows her head. "Lord Shihōin will be presenting the project. He will likely report on the disturbances with some specificity, but he will omit the hypothesis as to cause," she says cautiously. Her gaze flicks to him before flittering back to the ground. "I think it will prove insightful."

Byakuya's features harden. He has no doubt it will.

"If someone is intentionally tampering with the towers, then that person likely has intimate knowledge of the project's blueprints," she observes.

"You anticipate a change in the interruptions' schedule, after the inquiry, then," he states in ruthless deadpan.

She nods.

"The signal loss will become randomized once the target realizes you know."

"A small price," she states quietly.

"If the signal loss becomes randomized?"

Apprehension writes it way across her face, and she furrows her brow. "I don't know which problem will be more difficult to solve: How we prevent tampering, or how we go about discerning the motives and identity of the person tampering with the system."

"The latter will prove to be the more treacherous," he observes icily.

"Yes, milord. Undoubtedly so."

"Find and groom a replacement, Hisana."

Her head bobs up, and a look of horror colors her face. She was not expecting his reaction. To be truthful, neither was he. But, there it is. He cannot deny his feelings toward the matter, and, as the Head of the House, he is allowed moments of entitlement. This one in particular has been a long time coming.

"It is a command," he states sternly before adding, "I will attend the meeting next week on the family's behalf."

Hisana's lips part, but she keeps her tongue still. In fact, she seems somewhat relieved at his offer. "Yes, milord," she says. "A prudent move."

Briefly, he wonders if she has been carefully maneuvering him all along. Likely, not, he thinks. Which only begs the question: If she is not manipulating him, how long has she wanted to extricate herself from this enterprise? Has he been so blind, so self-absorbed, that he has failed his wife somehow? Has he overburdened her?

"Rukia's demonstration is today," Hisana observes, shrewdly diverting course.

Byakuya eyes her. No. She cannot unknot the threads of worry that have begun to ball in his brain so easily. But, he will oblige her if only to lighten the mood. "Yes."

Hisana smiles to herself. "Is there a particular reason for this demonstration?"

She has an inkling, he is sure. Her coy glance tells him as much. "Not yet," he states.

"But there will be? At some unspecified time?" she teases.

"Perhaps."

Her smile widens, and she links her arm through his. "How unkind to keep secrets from your wife."

Her smile proves infectious, but he refuses her invitation to expound all the same. "In time."

* * *

Rukia swallows so hard that she nearly chokes on her own spit.

_Almost_.

She manages to salvage her dignity and composure at the last minute. Thanks be to the Soul King. Or to the gods. Every single one of them.

_Steady_, she chants the word inside her head, but, try as she might, she cannot train the tremor from her hand. It is imperceptible to most, she knows. Only an expert eye would be able to discern the slight wavering motion.

Unfortunately, she is holding an audience with only _experts_.

Her brother, Vice Captain Shiba, her Third Seat, and her sister all gather to watch her release. Two of the four are mostly there to scrutinize her, to search for errors and to make corrections. Neither Kaien nor Brother is known for his mastery of _tact_.

Reflexively, her eyes find Hisana and Miyako. Both watch her with warm maternal expressions; she can almost feel their encouragement wash over her. Her gaze lingers with them for a few moments, hoping their good will proves to be the needle that can sew together her tattered equanimity.

It doesn't work.

It was worth the attempt, she decides before glimpsing her bickering mentors. Well, they aren't bickering _at the moment_, which is an _improvement_ since neither Kaien nor Brother seems to miss the opportunity to lob a barbed comment in the other's direction.

_Maybe they aren't even paying attention to me_, Rukia prays, knowing all too well she is _wrong_. Byakuya and Kaien may have their differences—a whole slew of them if Rukia is keeping score—but they do appear to be _competent_ enough to work through their strange rivalry when need be. Like right then.

Unsheathing her Zanpakutō, Rukia bows her head politely and inhales a deep breath.

She can do this. She knows she can do this. She has done it a thousand times by now.

"Dance, Sode no Shirayuki," Rukia summons her Zanpakutō. With as much grace as she can muster, she holds her sword in front of her and turns the blade in an elegant counter-clockwise motion. The sword's color bleeds away, leaving only a pure white. "Next Dance, White Ripple." As soon as she calls out her second dance, the one she has only recently mastered, she punctures the ground four times in an orderly semicircle. She then quickly assumes her battle stance and releases an artic burst deep into the empty cavern.

Sealing her sword, she bows demurely and sheathes her blade. She is barely up straight when Kaien and Byakuya begin arguing over her technique. Their words bleed together as they try to make their equally astute and learned explanations only for the other to rebut with equally astute and learned explanations.

Hisana and Miyako, however, both rise to congratulate Rukia on her hard work.

"Your release is so lovely, Rukia," Miyako gushes sweetly. "The whiteness of your blade, your hilt, and your guard is so pure. It is quite remarkable."

"Yes, I'd say it out pretties Senbonzakura," Hisana whispers, leaning her head in slightly and giving her sister a sly wink.

"Thank you," Rukia murmurs.

Unconsciously, she sinks into herself. Her chin tucks toward her neck, and her shoulders lift defensively against the kind words. It touches her. It truly does. But, she has never really learned the art of taking a complement.

Hisana throws her arms around her sister's shoulders and pulls her in for a hug.

"Oh my!" Hisana exclaims and quickly retreats. Her embrace loosens, and, worriedly, Hisana examines Rukia, "You are _freezing_. Are you alright?"

Silence.

The room's barometric pressure plummets. Everything goes still. Even the cavern dares not to usher in as much as a _draft_.

Both Kaien and Byakuya stare blankly at Rukia.

Obviously, Hisana's observation triggers a possibility neither one of them remembered to consider.

"It is fine, Sister," Rukia assures Hisana.

Before Rukia can utter another soothing word, Byakuya has one of her hands in his. He palpates the flesh before drawing his conclusion—a conclusion that both he and Kaien reach at the exact moment. Both promptly decide to share their conclusion with absolutely no one.

Hisana shoots the two a stare that could flay flesh, and she gives a long headshake. The headshake of disapprobation, Rukia notes. She has never been on the receiving end of one of those, but Brother has.

Byakuya stares dispassionately ahead, which only proves to unsettle Hisana further. Exhaling a haughty breath, Hisana turns to Rukia. "Are you sure, Sister?" Hisana remains unconvinced, and she kisses the top of Rukia's head, checking her temperature. "It's getting a little better," she murmurs, rubbing warmth into Rukia's shoulders.

"Yes, Sister," Rukia says gently, "I am warming up just as expected."

Concern darkens Hisana's eyes. No amount of reassurance will persuade her. "Is that normal, Lord Byakuya?" Hisana asks pointedly.

Byakuya lifts his head, but his lips remain sealed. Rukia has a sinking feeling that he is parsing his words and ordering his thoughts so as not to horrify his beloved wife. "It is not typical," he says, refusing to borrow the value-laden word, "normal."

"Will it injure her?" Hisana insists, quick to pounce on her husband's evasive language.

Byakuya and Kaien exchange apprehensive glances. Both don the tarnished innocence of a small child caught with his hand in the sweets bowl, and, for once in their relatively long lives, the unlikely pair stands in cautious solidarity.

"It is unlikely that harm will come to her if she properly learns to control her technique," Byakuya explains.

Hisana's eyes narrow.

"She is strong," Kaien interjects. "She is very strong and swift."

Hisana's eyes drift from her husband to Kaien. She does not seem particularly thrilled with either one, but she does not pursue her inquisition. Instead, she turns to Rukia and pulls her into a tight embrace.

For a moment, Rukia swears she can hear her sister's heart stop.

It is the sound of release.

Of letting go.

* * *

**Author's Notes: ** Thanks again for reading! This next part should be at least four chapters (in keeping with the other parts).

**Rose ****Attack:** Good catch! Yes, Renji was first assigned to the Fifth in the canon universe. I figured, given Renji's current association with the Kuchiki family, Aizen would be quicker to decide that Renji is an unsuitable fit for his purposes. I hope to give some insight in the gamesmanship that is happening on Aizen's side in the future chapters. (Perhaps also Kisuke's side as well with the introduction of Yoruichi.) Hopefully, the cliffhanger from the last chapter will be expanded on in due time.

**Sunev.31:** Yes, the eleventh seems like suicide! I really do love this division in the canon universe, though.

**Sky1011: **Aw! Thanks so much! I hope to continue it at least through the Soul Society Arc.


	13. The Loss

**Summary:** While sorting through boxes of records, Hisana makes a furry friend. Rukia learns something about her past and how her sister met her brother-in-law. Byakuya and Hisana have a quiet moment together, which is promptly interrupted when tragedy strikes.

* * *

**The Loss**

It has been such a horrendous day.

A darkness blankets her. It fits her snuggly, clinging to her curves and dragging her down. It fills the spaces of her mind, keeping her thoughts black and heavy. It chills the breath, and it slows the heart. Intermittent thuds echo in the chambers of her chest.

_Why me_, she thinks grimly to herself as she pries another box of paper open.

Rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, Hisana inhales a deep breath. Her lungs inflate to full capacity before she releases. The dank basement air settles in her bones and slides down her throat.

_There are so many of them._ "Them," meaning the boxes that seemly multiply in front of her very eyes. No wonder the engineer was shy about giving her _all_ the data. She has been slogging her way through it all morning.

After receiving a brief transmission from her husband that the last of the project's preliminary requirements passed the Chambers with little in the way of objections or modifications, she made her way down to storage to sort through the data and documents.

What a horrible idea.

She should've celebrated, first.

_I really should hire someone to do this_.

She grimaces.

No, she doesn't really want to hire someone to review the documents. The fear of exposure plucks some discordant notes in her heart. But, her hand is being forced.

_Maybe I can delegate this task to the person who I am supposed to be grooming_.

Ah, yes, the groomee. Or _pet_. She still has yet to properly consider the candidates for the position. And, she wonders how long she can wait. Just how dilatory can she be? Just how _far_ can she push her luck? Byakuya can be extraordinarily insistent—ruthless, even—when he wants.

_I have time,_ she decides before giving the room another glance.

_Maybe…_

The mere _presence _of so many boxes begins to weigh on her. The room feels crowded, which is quite the feat given just how capacious the storage space is. It is twice the size of his Lordship's bedchambers. To feel claustrophobic in what must be 5,000 square feet, is a sensation Hisana would not wish on anyone, let alone _herself_.

_What have I gotten myself into, now?_ she wonders, miserably.

She stretches her arms over her head and winces at the sound of her shoulders popping in her ears. Just then—upon feeling the crackling of tense muscles and the prickling of her circulatory system waking up—she realizes that she has been sitting in rigid seiza for at least three hours, engrossed by what amounts to nothing more than _paper tigers_.

All her fears—nothing but paper.

She can hardly imagine what her husband and sister must face, what with the threat of _death_ and _bodily injury_ breathing down their necks.

Paper cuts are her true adversary. The rest? Only figments of her imagination; intangible demons that roam in the noise of data, field notes, and committee discussions.

_THUNK_.

Hisana jolts up. Her back is ramrod straight. Her eyes open wide. Her shoulders rise to her jawline.

_What was that?_

Dusk has claimed what little natural light once peeked through the small windows lining the tops of the walls. Now, only shadows creep down the walls to the floors and back up the walls again.

When the muffled thudding noise returns, Hisana manages to triangulate the source of the sound. It emanates from the right-hand corner of the room, near one of the windows, and it sounds like someone or something is throwing their weight against the wall.

Which is exactly the case.

Hisana can hardly believe her eyes. "Cat?" Hisana murmurs. To her shock, a black cat stares down at her through the window. Lifting a paw, it taps the glass.

"You want in?" Hisana is beside herself. She is talking to a cat, and, even sadder, she is _expecting_ it to reply.

Worse yet, it does respond to her question with a wide-mouthed meow. The cat then circles before it sits. Patiently, it watches her through half-lidded eyes, waiting for her to obey its command.

Hisana smiles at the creature and shakes her head. "I can't reach the latch," she says, pointing at the release mechanism a few feet above her head.

The cat cocks its head, and its gaze drifts to the multitude of boxes scattered across the room, some of which are stacked one on top of the other. Clearly, it judges Hisana, and it finds her intelligence and creativity _lacking_.

"Of course," Hisana teases and considers the configuration of boxes that would be sufficient to lift her to the window.

_Don't be ridiculous_, her inner pragmatist chimes. Yet, despite knowing better, she feels a sudden compulsion to obey the animal's commanding stare.

Hisana plants her hands on her hips and shakes her head. She is being silly. What would she do with a _cat _in the storage room? And, isn't her husband terribly allergic to the animal's fur? At least, she thinks she remembers hearing him grumble about the beasts, referring to them as "pests."

Plus, she needs to get back to _work_. Enough playing around, she tells herself. Those boxes won't sort themselves.

The moment she turns away from the window, however, provokes the cat to action. It immediately springs forward and begins to follow her, stopping at a partially open window. It mewls in her direction, and it slips an adroit paw under the window. Gropingly, it searches for the release, but its relatively short legs cannot reach the latch at its current angle.

It gives a high-pitched cry.

"A little more to the right, and angle it a bit," Hisana murmurs. While she won't aid and abet the animal's breaking and entering, she doesn't exactly want it to hurt itself either.

It is quick to follow her instruction, and, after a few attempts, it triggers the latch.

Without hesitation, the feline slinks into the room and pushes off the ledge. It pauses at a stack of sorted papers, and it circles the small tower, curling around the papers as it moves.

Hisana smiles wryly to herself. _How strange_. _It appears to be reading…_

She doesn't really think it _is_ reading the documents. It is a _cat_, after all.

_Anthropomorphism_, she thinks and heaves a sigh.

Hisana returns to work, but it is not long before the cat makes its rounds of the progress and is scrutinizing her actions. It fashions a throne of sorts in her lap, and it looks on as Hisana peruses the data.

It isn't _so_ bad. The animal proves to be relatively distraction-free. It mostly sits in her lap, and, when it gets bored, it prowls the room in silence, as if it is thinking deep philosophical thoughts.

Hisana ignores the cat, as she makes a few logs of her own. Summaries, reflections, and thoughts fill a spare ledger situated at her knee. The cat occasionally stops to stare down at the ledger before moving to other boxes.

Three quiet hours pass.

The orange and reds of dusk begin to darken as night extinguishes the last of the sun's rays. Hisana has finally found her rhythm when the intense cry of wood cracking against knuckle sends the cat shooting across the floor, into an empty cardboard box. It ducks its head down, becoming one with the darkness.

Only the short flicker of the animal's tail exposes which box it has chosen. The cat, however, likely realizes its error and pulls its tail down.

_It's hiding? From what? _Hisana furrows her brows at this odd behavior, but she resists the urge to chastise the beast.

"Yes," she calls, straightening her back and tucking her hands in her lap.

"Lady Kuchiki," the steward's grey voice reaches her through the door, "Lady Rukia returns."

"Thank you," Hisana murmurs.

She hesitates. Dread, swift and dark, swells in her chest, and it drapes over her heart, chilling it. Her head dips down as she reaches for her composure.

Standing, she narrowly focuses on piecing the shreds of her resolve together. She thinks she has almost conquered the anxiety clawing in her belly when she crosses the floor. Before treading over the threshold, she turns and glances at the cat. Its head pops up enough for her to see its yellow eyes skimming the top of the cardboard box. It shares her gaze, and, discerning the coast clear, it stretches up and braces its paws against the edge of the cardboard opening.

Hisana acknowledges the cat one last time. She gives a small bow of her head, and her gaze flits to the open window. "Good evening, Mr. Cat."

* * *

The steward fetches Rukia from her quarters, and he promptly ushers her to Hisana's wing of the house. Without a word, Rukia enters the room and sits down on the cushion opposite her sister.

Hisana fills a cup of tea for her, and Rukia waits, patiently watching. Her sister has mastered the art of pouring tea in such a way that even her stray movements carry the weight of great meaning. But, Rukia knows better.

Sister's actions are graceful but rote.

Silence wraps the siblings; its arms are heavy, and its embrace is cold. The air, too, is heavy and cold. Oppressive, more like it, Rukia observes as she watches her sister lift her tea bowl to her lips.

Hisana takes small pensive sips between worried looks and frowns. Deep creases form in her brow, and her gaze becomes piercing but unseeing. She stares meaningfully into her own inner world, and Rukia wonders what, exactly, has engrossed her sister.

_Something bad_, she thinks.

_Really bad_, by the looks of it.

Did the family say something? Did the Chambers reject one of the Kuchiki-Shiba-Shihōin joint proposals? Had the Konoe or Takatsukasa clans _done_ something? Just the mention of Tadahiro Konoe seems to disconcert her sister. Maybe he has sent a missive or transmission or, _worse_, a gift?

"Rukia," Hisana begins. Her voice is low and serious.

Rukia's eyes dart up to her sister. Hisana has all the appearance of serenity, but there is a certain rawness in her expression. Her lips compress into a tight straight line, and her jaws clench.

"Yes, Sister?" Rukia encourages with a meek voice.

Hisana inhales a deep breath. Her small chest expands, puffing outward, and she lifts her head regally. "There has been something that I have been meaning to tell you," she begins, but her voice trails into the distance. The words seem to sting Hisana, and she closes her eyes. "I think you need to know what happened when you were a child."

Rukia's eyes widen, and she gulps down her tea. Her throat tightens in response to the burning liquid, and she struggles to breathe for a moment. "Yes," she chokes out, trying her level best to stifle the wet cough that rises in her chest.

Hisana is either too consumed by her own inner turmoil or too polite because she does not allow Rukia's gasping to deter her from continuing. "We were sent to Inuzuri together. You were but an infant, and I was a child, scarcely an adolescent." She pauses, opening her eyes, but they fall to the floor. Her brows furrow as she recalls the memory. The recollection pains her. The lines of her face become hard and deep, and her color drains.

"I was so hungry, and you were hungry," she continues with great effort, "I managed a month, scrounging for food for the both of us, but by the end of it, we were thin, desiccated and exhausted. You barely cried, and I could barely carry my own weight." Her lips slope into a frown, and her eyes darken as she relives the past.

"Our last night together, it was snowing. It was a blizzard. Sheets of snow stung our skin, and I dragged us to a small inn. I was certain that we were both going to die that night. Sure of it. So I went to the inn as a last effort to beg for food and shelter. An elderly couple owned the establishment, and, when I stepped across the threshold, I was a mess. The woman took you from my arms, and she looked at you so tenderly, like you were _hers_. I thought, then, that if I could not survive, at least you could. She took one look at me, grabbed me by the face, and—," Hisana pauses for a moment; the memory elicits a tortured grin, "She said I would _do_. She took you as her own, and she and her husband sold me to pay a debt owed to a Shinigami. I was taken to the Flower and Willow World of the Third District, and I was assigned to a lovely oiran, to learn the trade."

Rukia gapes at this. Words escape her. Fly right out of her head. All she can do is stare unhelpfully at her sister.

And, yet, suddenly, Renji's idle comments make sense. His words click into place in her head, unlocking what little she knew of the Pleasure Quarters. How had he figured it out before she had? She doesn't know, and she isn't sure if she wants to find out.

Hisana manages a bittersweet smile at Rukia's wide-eyed innocence. "It wasn't _so bad_. I learned the koto and the shamisen, dance, ikebana, and poetry, and I was educated, fed, clothed, and sheltered. I was never mistreated by my mistress, and I was not required to entertain clients until I was of age."

"Is that how you met Brother?" Rukia can't help but blurt out. Upon hearing the words, her hand reflexively flies up to her mouth, and she nearly topples over. A rebuking inner voice slings harsh words in her head, excoriating her behavior.

Instantly, she understands why the nobles at the Academy asked all those entitled questions about living in Rukongai. It wasn't _just _because they were snotty rich brats (although, most of them _were_). At least _some _of them had no idea how to contain their curiosity.

Hisana, however, smiles sincerely at the inquiry. Not a shade of umbrage paints her countenance. "Yes," she says, nodding, "He was my first client."

Rukia's lips part as her jaw goes slack. This seems to amuse Hisana for her smile broadens in response.

"When I met Lord Byakuya, he was young. I was young," she winces slightly at the memory, "It went _poorly_." In a rare moment, she flushes.

The mortification from years past still haunts her, and Rukia chuckles. She has no doubt that her brother was not a very cooperative client. No doubt at all.

"We improved with age," Hisana murmurs, retaining her smile even as her gaze shyly drifts to the garden.

"So he was your _first_?" Rukia asks, leaning forward. Her fingers curl under her sitting mat, and she stares at her sister like a dog waiting for a morsel of food to drop from its master's lips.

Hisana blinks, a little taken aback by her sister's eagerness to learn about _those days_. "No," she says, hoping she has interpreted the question correctly. "I suppose it was intended to be that way, but Lord Byakuya had ethical qualms with the disparity of power."

"Other men didn't?" Rukia asks, shrewdly reading the sentiments undulating below the words.

Hisana's eyes flick wistfully up and to the left. "No," she replies, clearly editing her words in the process. "I was not a courtesan for very long, however. Only a few years, and, even then, I was afforded the ability to reject suitors who I detested."

"Lord Konoe was a client, wasn't he?" In a stroke, it all begins to make sense—why Konoe is so familiar with Hisana and why that familiarity perturbs _both_ Hisana and Byakuya. It also explains why Lord Konoe seems to have such a well-cultivated dislike of Byakuya. He lost, and, whether he has genuine feelings for Hisana or not, _losing_ would have been a blow to his ego, especially losing to a rival clansman.

"He _was_," Hisana says pointedly, emphasizing the past tense with great pleasure.

"That is why Brother abhors him?" Rukia means to _think_ the statement, but there it is, hanging above the two like an anvil waiting to drop.

Hisana huffs a small breath and grins impishly. "I cannot begin to speculate on _all _the _many and multifarious ways_ in which my husband detests Tadahiro, but I imagine my _complication_ does not generate any good will between the two men."

_Tadahiro_.

It is brief, but Rukia does not miss it. Her sister is usually so careful, almost _deliberate_, with her words, and, yet, she so casually refers to the head of the Konoe family by his first name, no honorifics.

"Did he want you to marry him?" It certainly seems like Tadahiro _feels _entitled to Hisana. He fawns over her, buys her expensive jewels, and never misses the opportunity to _touch_ her.

"He wanted to purchase my contract at one time. I think the result would have been concubinage had I allowed it."

Rukia's brows pop up at this. _Concubinage_. She always forgets that some of the noble families allow the males to take secondary wives. Briefly, she wonders if the Kuchiki allow for multiple wives. Does her Brother have a concubine? She certainly has never heard of any _other_ woman. But, would she have if he did?

Hisana fills Rukia's tea bowl before replenishing her own. "Yes. Concubinage is actively practiced by both the Konoe and Shihōin families. Although, it is permissible for all noble males to take as many wives as desired," she elaborates, astutely reading the thoughts dancing across Rukia's face.

"Would Brother?" The very question seems absurd on its face. Byakuya barely _notices_ other women, and, when he does, it is for utility's sake.

Hisana smiles at her sister. "The Kuchiki males do not have a history of taking multiple wives. But, if he _truly_ desired it, I would not oppose his happiness."

"A good thing to remember." Byakuya's low baritone enters the room before he retracts the door. He wears an amused, if not muted, expression as he locks gazes with Hisana.

Rukia startles at the sound of her brother's voice. Her breath catches in her chest, and she tenses_. Also, did he just make a joke?_ The observation comes on a jumbled delay as she regulates her breathing. Her hand clenches her chest, and her gaze drifts to her sister, who takes his jab without batting an eye.

"I didn't say I would make it easy for you," she retorts slyly as she begins to stand.

A small half-smile lengthens a corner of Byakuya's lips, and his expression softens. "Ah, I see," he murmurs sardonically.

She charms him with a smile before turning to Rukia. "Lord Byakuya and I have an engagement," she says, her voice diving a few octaves and hardening.

Rukia can tell that her sister is not _particularly pleased_ that they have a dinner date with his family, but she conceals her displeasure well enough.

"You may attend the dinner, Rukia," Byakuya states cooly as he turns to acknowledge Rukia.

Hisana's eyes widen, and she gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head. A clear warning: Avoid at all cost. And Rukia doesn't need to be told twice. "Thank you, Brother, but, I have a patrol later tonight at the Thirteenth."

He nods, approvingly. "All is well at the Thirteenth?"

Rukia bows her head and smiles. "Yes, Brother. Thank you for inquiring."

He bows his head slightly. "Send your captain my regards."

"Yes, Brother."

"Be _careful_," Hisana says, winking. Clearly, she has learned Rukia's coded language to get out of particularly gruesome affairs like family dinners.

"Yes, Sister. I always am. You, too!"

Byakuya raises a brow at this. "Do not worry, Rukia. She never is," he sighs.

Hisana tosses him a teasing stare. Eyes narrow and lips purse. "I adore you as well, _dear_."

* * *

Duty steals her husband before they take their seats at the repast with his family.

Damn _duty_, leaving her to the Kuchiki wolves. Alone. With no ally. Not a single friendly face among the sea of pale, dark-haired patricians.

She takes all the barbed comments that come her way with the appropriate grace required of a woman of her standing. She merely chooses the least offensive interpretation, and she runs with it. Mostly, she just switches off. Silent mode has proven to be an effective method for her husband, and she plays the role of ice queen with surprising panache.

Ice queen doesn't particularly suit her, however. She is warm and caring by nature. But, being herself is a surefire way to end the night with her heart in pieces.

And, she's had enough heartache for a lifetime.

At least, if nothing else, this experience brings her closer to her husband. She now knows the flaying sensation of intense scrutiny, and she can only imagine that, as a scion, his inquiry was scorching and constant. No wonder he comes off so wintry. It isn't a personal preference or a personality defect; it is a survival mechanism.

She manages to dodge the worst of it, redirecting most of the brunt. The hits that do land are ones that she has heard for decades. The oldies, but goodies. The Kuchiki Top 100.

Tonight, it is all about _babies_. One of the cousins—some distant relation to Byakuya—is expecting. No one says anything to Hisana _directly_, but the sentiments hang over her like a guillotine's blade poising for the drop. It is only a matter of time before someone broaches the topic of heirs-her least favorite critique. It burns her every time. It draws the bile to her throat, and she does everything in her mental arsenal to keep her lips sealed and her tongue still.

It isn't as if she is purposefully eschewing her duty. Biology is proving troublesome. Devastatingly troublesome.

Yet, she sets her mental clock.

Last time, the family showed a peculiar amount of _restraint_ (or was it sadism?) and waited a _whole hour_ before one of the second-uncles-twice-removed asked whether she was ever planning on carrying out her wifely duties. He then suggested they purchase a dog. You know…for _luck_…because they apparently have _litters_ of babies.

Someone, then, usually makes some joke about Inuzuri and curs. She never knows how to take it. It's obviously offensive, but she isn't certain if they are calling _her_ a dog or if they being ironic about her origin point and the lack of babies romping through the halls. And, she figures if she is going to the effort of being offended, she might as well know _what_, exactly, draws her ire.

In between forced bouts of conversation and the requisite number of insults, her mind wanders. Cautiously, she considers her company. She would like to "find and groom" a member of the family for the purposes of the business. Yet, her choices all seem so _uninspiring_.

If she chooses Aunt Masuyo, she is just _asking_ for sabotage. Might as well burn down everything right then and there. It would be easier and quicker. It would probably cost less money, too.

None of the Kuchiki males will do. Them? Taking orders? From her? Not going to happen. Not in a _million_ years. Not if the Soul King, himself, descended from the Royal Realm and crowned her Queen of Soul Society.

This narrows her choices to nothing but the female Kuchiki cousins, of which there are _many_. Most of the girls, however, are too young, too puerile, too loyal to Aunt Masuyo, or too preoccupied with their arranged marriages.

She frowns as she stares at the lovely but rather witless faces of her female contemporaries. To be born a noblewoman. What a terrible fate, especially among the Kuchiki, where the highborn women are _carefully instructed_ _not_ _to enter_ the Gotei 13.

Hisana presses her lips together. She can almost feel the moment when her soul begins to permafrost. She wonders: How long will it take to thaw this time?

Joylessly, she bids her farewells at the end.

When she returns to the manor, she prepares tea and a small meal for her husband for when he returns. And he could not arrive a moment too soon. In fact, the instant he retracts the door, she is on her feet, prepared to receive him. Her heart flutters in her chest at the mere sight of him.

Eagerly, she meets him, and she begins.

It is a ritual that she looks forward to every night. Even when she is at her lowest, most ill, and most loathsome, she waits patiently, breath tightly drawn in her chest, for the moment to come to her. He has only denied her this small pleasure three times. The first time, he left for the Sixth shortly after taking dinner with her. The other times, he refused after declaring her too ill to move on his account.

Each and every denial of this privilege crushed her mood and dampened her spirit.

As he enters the chamber, she fixes him with a look. Her eyes are eager, glistening in the dim lamp light. She stands as if beckoned, and she meets him in the middle of the floor. Suddenly, every fiber and tendon slides into place.

Muscle memory serves her well. Her skin longs for the caress of his silken robes. Her fingers itch to unbind the bonds that keep him confined. Her heart races when she sees him pause to wait for her to come to him.

She strides to his side, where instinct, raw and pure, rushes over her, enervating her muscles. Her fingers nimbly trace the broad expanse of his shoulders before reaching the collar of his captain's haori. Caressingly, her hands slip under the coat. He is warm, like a furnace, and he smells of the outdoors and musk. She inhales a deep breath, letting his fragrance penetrate her, before peeling back the white fabric.

With loving care, she drapes the garment over her arm, letting the material pool in the bend of her elbow. It is a new addition to the ritual—another accomplishment that she must divest him of before he is ready for bed. She smiles to herself, relishing the heat against her before placing the coat away.

Next, she unravels the windflower silk scarf from his neck. She knows just where to tug, and it releases in a single, fluttering motion. He stiffens slightly as the soft fabric pulls against his neck, bathing the flesh in cool silken kisses.

She smiles at the tension that sparks under the muscles of his shoulders. For some reason, she relishes the sight of his restraint buckling slightly. Her caresses and tugs do not always garner such a visceral reaction, but she cherishes it when it happens.

Wrapping the scarf around her neck for the time being, she soundlessly moves to his front. She does not gaze into his face or into his eyes because she is certain he would melt her with a single look. Instead, she keeps her head bowed, and her eyes shift to his hands. With a gentle touch, she takes his right hand in both of hers. Her fingertips glide over his fingerless white tekkō. She strips him of the covers using long graceful strokes. Once his left hand is free of the guards, she turns slightly to place them on a nearby desk.

When she turns back to him, her fingers brush against his obi. She has long since memorized his knots; they are old friends now. It does not take long for her fingers loosen the material with a few deft yanks. The gentle rustling of fabric sings a sweet song in her ears as it pools on the ground. Despite the numerous times that she has prepared her husband for bed, she still blushes when her hands ghost across his warm chest as she frees him from his robes.

Chastely, her gaze falls to the floor as she cloaks him in a casual robe. It is a plain green color, and the fabric is thin enough to breathe during the warm spell. Tucking the material just right and smoothing the wrinkles from his shoulders and back, she smiles to herself. Her lips quiver slightly when she feels the bubble of anticipation rise in her chest, heating her, and just as her tongue presses against the roof of her mouth, he kneels down.

_A deviation to the proceedings. _

Her lips press closed, and she bows slightly at the knees. He is eager to finish the ritual. She wonders why.

Dutifully, she begins to remove his beloved kenseikan. Her touch is smooth and careful to ensure that she does not snag even the thinnest strand of hair as she unfastens the piece. Her fingertips ghost across his scalp, soothing the tender area where the headpiece rested. She caresses him for a few moments longer. Her slender fingers rake through his glossy hair. She hopes this will ease his weary demeanor, and she waits patiently for the tension that he carries to melt.

It never does.

She draws an uneasy breath. The air is sharp and piercing against her throat and it leaves a stinging trail all the way down to her lungs. Has she displeased him in some way? He is inordinately quiet and still, and she can feel the chill of distance cling to her robes.

With loving care, she turns and stores every piece of his raiment in its rightful place, ever mindful of the meaning imbued in each item. His family heirlooms represent his pride and his vow to uphold his family's wishes. The captain's haori demonstrates his skill and mastery of the spiritual arts. The Shihakushō shows his dedication as a Shinigami and his desire to uphold the natural order.

With these thoughts in mind, however, she cannot help but feel joy break over her when she locks away the reminders of his nobility and status.

Out of sight.

Out of mind.

When she turns, her smile widens at the sight of him. He is transformed. Gone are the vestments of his pride, his scholar, his power, and his strength. Gone is the evidence that he is more than just a man. Right then, he is merely her husband and that has always been enough for her.

When she crosses the floor to him, he is waiting. She does not realize it at first. His intentions and emotions are hidden, buried under his façade of indifference. All she can see are the straight elegant lines of his back and the shine of his dark hair.

When he turns to glimpse her, a languid expression masks the day's troubles from his features. She knows all too well that something—a duty, an obligation—has stolen his thoughts, swallowing him completely, even as he returns her gaze.

She opens her mouth slightly. Written in her stare is an offer of tea and food. This is a ritual after all. She has perfected the script over their many happy decades together.

He stops her.

_Another revision._

He grasps her, closing his fingers tightly around her hand. He does not pull her toward him. No, that would be too vulgar, too unrefined. But, she reads the longing in his eyes well, and she obliges, dropping to her knees next to him.

He leans down and kisses her. It begins urgently. _Another deviation_, she thinks. His kisses are always sweet and gentle, deepening gradually. But, now, he seems out of sorts, and his lips frantically search hers as he pulls her tightly against him.

Her heart starts in her chest, and she submits, not out of duty but out of need. He easily sparks her own desire, but she restrains herself, letting him continue, enjoying the way his hands feel against her as he tries to untie her many knots.

When his lips press against her throat, she arches up, greedily begging for more, and he is quick to answer her silent pleas. His hands, warm and large, glide under her undone robes, and she moans, urging him to continue.

He takes her in his arms fully, and he guides her to the bed. He is always careful, and she wonders if he truly finds her so fragile. He doesn't treat the millennia-old heirloom porcelain so tentatively.

She reaches up, pushing back the curtain of black locks from his face. A slight blush colors her cheeks at the intensity radiating from his eyes. Rarely is her husband so blatant, and she wonders what possesses him so strongly. Clearly, he desires to lose himself in the act, to repress some thought or feeling.

Exhaling a deep sigh, she shuts her eyes and pulls her silks loose. She tells herself that she doesn't mind. She has used his body for respite more than once, and she would never deny him the opportunity, to return the favor.

Running her hands through his hair, her muscles spring up against his kisses. His mouth, wet and hot, presses fast against the point of her hipbone, and she bites her lip hard, fighting the urge to wiggle against him. "You're teasing me," she murmurs, curling his hair around her fingers. The silky chill of his tresses soothe her fraying nerves as he plays her body with great expertise. He, after all, has had many long years to master her, and he never refuses the occasion to practice and perfect his skill.

He glances up at her. The look is fleeting, but she sees his eyes. They are dark and dilated. There is an emotion lingering in their depths that excite her, and her excitement only exacerbates as his hand travels up her thigh, following the curvature of her leg.

With his free hand, he parts the silks, allowing him to see her more fully. He dips his head down, and presses his lips against the sensitive pale skin of her stomach. She is so small and slender against him. He relishes the way their bodies fit together, and he delights in the way she moves against him. His kisses become bolder. His lips part so he can taste her, so he can better feel how her muscles and sinews spark against his tongue.

Her back arches up when he becomes too vigorous, and he stops when she flutters sporadically under him. Lifting his head, he studies her expression and locks her gaze. Smoothly, his hands cup her hips and pins them down, and he reaches up, kissing her brow.

"Breathe," he murmurs against the shell of her ear.

She flushes upon realizing that she, in fact, is holding her breath and has been holding her breath for a while now. Even after these many years, she quivers with anticipation. It is an overwhelming feeling that breaks over her, like waves pummeling a jagged cliff, and she blindly fists a hand in the sheets.

"Please," she whispers against his shoulder as he slides a hand between her thighs. With great expectancy, she waits for the inevitable flash of pleasure, and her legs part for him without hesitation.

The promise of pleasure, however, is broken by the cracking of knuckle against wood.

"Milady, it is urgent." The steward's low voice reaches them through the door.

She cries softly against Byakuya's chest, pulling him fast against her to smother the noise. Her heart stammers, and a cold frustration blows through her. Her body rails, unsated and starving for him.

Byakuya tucks her under his chin, and he kisses the top of her head. Desire lingers in that kiss, and it penetrates her and stokes her own yearning. His fingers clench against her, holding her still for a few moments longer. Fiber by fiber, she feels his body stiffen against hers as the same hunger that hounds her sears through him.

"Yes," she manages in a pained, almost broken, voice, but her body is languorous. It stubbornly refuses to draw away from her husband's warmth. Her heart thunders erratically in her chest, and her skin flinches at the _thought _of leaving him unfulfilled.

It takes every bit of effort to extricate herself, and, as she does, her body trembles, threatening to betray her like she had betrayed it.

She feels entirely too intoxicated to walk, to think, or to do much else as she crosses the floor. Her fingers are quick to tie the requisite knots and smooth the resulting wrinkles from her kimono.

She looks disheveled, and she _feels_ explosive as she draws back the door. "Yes?" she replies in a surprisingly even voice.

She _wants_ to scold the steward. She _wants_ to _remind_ him that when her husband is in residence that she will fetch the servants. She _wants _to tell him that there is no need for interruption.

Mostly, however, she _wants_ to cry.

She holds back her primal urge to scream. Instead, she levels an icy glare at the steward.

He bows obediently before her. Opening his eyes, his gaze snaps across the room to find his lord shrugging on a robe over naked shoulders. Immediately, the servant's gaze retreats to the floor. The idle glance reveals why his intrusion is so acutely felt, and his voice shakes as he speaks. "It is Lady Rukia. She is unwell."

With a word, Hisana's composure returns. She exhales a deep breath, releasing the heated tension that has built in her muscles. "I will attend to her at once."

Instinctively, she glances over her shoulder. Byakuya's head bows as he ties his obi. He catches her stare and dismisses her with a nodding glance.

She hesitates, lost in his gray eyes. She wants to say something. _Anything_. The words, however, never manifest, and she winces against the emptiness of her thoughts.

Her heart strangles in her chest as she turns to the door.

She traces the empty corridors. Her feet know the way, and her thoughts darken. Nothing echoes in her mind or heart. Just a thick blanket of blackness falls over her as she approaches her sister's room.

"Sister?" she murmurs, kneeling.

_Nothing_.

Hisana sits quietly, barely breathing. A few moments pass before she _hears_ it, before her sister's pitiful sobs reach her through the thin shoji walls. Never one to sit idle, Hisana retracts the door and crosses into the room.

It takes her a moment. The tenebrous blues and blacks of twilight momentarily blind her. At first, she feels that she is peering through a gloomy hazy, but, as her eyes slowly dark adapt, she finds her sister curled into a ball on her futon. All she can see is the gentle curve of Rukia's back.

"Rukia?" Hisana's voice barely reaches above a whisper as she nears her sister.

A silvery sheen outlines the contours of Rukia's diminutive frame, and, as Hisana approaches, she sees the silvery lines flutter. The fluttering appears quiet at first, but the closer Hisana draws, the more pronounced the shifting becomes.

"Rukia," Hisana calls soothingly when she sees that her sister is hugging herself tightly and shaking like a leaf in a typhoon. She clasps her sister's shoulder, and, gently, she guides her sister toward her.

"Rukia!" she gasps, finally seeing the damage. Dark splotches of blood besmirch the sides of her sister's face. "Rukia?" Hisana's voice is frantic as she grabs her sister up. With wide eyes, she stares into Rukia's visage.

Rukia's round cheeks are slick, shimmering in the moonlight. A thick patina of blood, sweat and tears mat her hair to the sides of her face. Her lips part as her eyes meet Hisana, and her chest heaves.

"I–I–I," Rukia stammers between labored breaths.

Hisana pulls Rukia close to her. Her arms wrap tightly around her sister, and she kisses the top of Rukia's head as she waits for Rukia to find the words.

"I," Rukia tries again, choking on her tears. "I," another deep sob steals her voice, "_killed_," she gasps again, "Kaien."

Hisana blanches; her eyes widen and her breath hitches in her throat. Did she just hear that correctly? Her sister _killed _Lieutenant Kaien Shiba? Was that even possible? Kaien is so strong, and, most of all, Rukia _adores_ Kaien.

Hisana's brows furrow at the pronouncement, but it takes a few breathless moments for the news to sink in.

"I am so sorry," Rukia sobs, shivering violently against her sister.

Hisana kisses her sister's head again. "Come," she manages in the most resolute tone she can fashion.

Shifting Rukia's weight against her, she helps Rukia to the washroom. Before shutting the door, Hisana orders a servant to fetch a fresh yukata.

Turning on the overhead lighting, Hisana inspects her sister more thoroughly. Rukia's skin is a ghastly pallor, and her eyes are glazed and glassy. The world does not pierce her senses, and her responses arrive on a delay if at all.

_Shock_, Hisana observes as she begins to disrobe her sister. Drawing the water, she is quick to clean the blood and dirt from Rukia's shivering body. "It's alright," Hisana says comfortingly as she wraps Rukia's body in a towel.

"I'm a monster," Rukia murmurs cruelly to herself about herself.

Hisana gives a slow shake of her head as she pats the fabric against her sister's small frame, careful to dry her. "Shh," she whispers, cupping her sister's cheek in her hand.

Staring into the distance, Rukia places a shaky hand against her sister's forearm. "I didn't want to," she cries, tears spilling down her cheeks in a constant stream.

"What happened?" Hisana asks, dabbing the sleeves of her kimono against Rukia's face.

"A hollow," Rukia begins before losing her train of thought.

"A mission went poorly?" Hisana asks. She doesn't understand, never really has understood the reality of life as a Shinigami. She weaves together threads of knowledge that she has gained from her husband's stories, through her work in the family business, and via the politics of the Chambers.

Rukia gives a long shake of her head. "Ms Miyako fell, and Kaien went to avenge her. He couldn't. The hollow–it was too strong."

"The hollow got him?" Hisana tries to fill in the words and thoughts when it becomes too painful for Rukia.

"No. The hollow absorbed him, and I killed him. _I killed Kaien_," she murmurs, coughing on her tears and sadness.

Hisana pulls her sister into a comforting embrace. "You didn't kill Kaien, then," she says calmly.

Rukia shakes, and her grip tightens; her nails dig into Hisana's flesh, drawing blood. Hisana, however, does not move. "All I can see is his face," Rukia sobs.

Hisana tucks Rukia's head under her chin, and she tenderly strokes her sister's hair.

"I killed him," Rukia repeats as if the role is beginning to define her. Rukia the Killer of Kaien. Rukia the Destroyer. Rukia the unrepentant _murderer_.

Hisana shakes her head. "If Kaien was absorbed then you did not kill him, Rukia," she whispers against her sister's inky tresses. She rocks her sister, letting Rukia cling to her for a long while before pulling her up by her shoulders.

Rukia's eyes are wide open but unseeing. Hisana knows that look. She knows that Rukia is torturing herself on painful images and words. She knows that Rukia's spirit is slowly cracking under the pain. And, she knows that these cracks need to be repaired quickly before they develop into fault lines and tear her apart.

Lovingly, Hisana dresses Rukia, and she puts her sister to bed.

Crossing the threshold to Rukia's room, Hisana turns to the steward, who eagerly awaits her instruction. "Bring Lady Rukia tea. Add a sedative so she can better rest. Then, collect the data that Sangui recently delivered—it is in the records room—and bring it to my personal chambers." She has a sinking suspicion, but she pushes it down until she receives confirmation.

"You are dismissed." Without a second glance, she continues down the corridor. Her thoughts buzz loudly in her head as she nears the bedchamber. She is at a loss for what to do, how to act, or what to say. Her brain seemingly refuses to allow the news to sink in. It is fear, pure and simple, and she simply cannot surrender.

Wearily, she reaches for the door. Her fingertips lightly touch the wooden frame, and she closes her eyes. The wood's chill rouses her slightly, and she peels back the door.

Surprise crests over her when she finds Byakuya waiting for her at his writing desk. His writing hand goes still as she enters, and he waits patiently for her to speak.

"Kaien Shiba and his wife are gone." The words just spill out of her. She can barely understand her own voice as it punctures the graceful tranquility of the room. It feels as if someone else has made the announcement. It all feels like a dream. A bad one.

Byakuya stirs uncomfortably under the weight of her words before going completely motionless. "I know," he murmurs, turning to her. His eyes are calm but set.

"Kaien and Miyako are dead," she reiterates once again, more so for her sake than for his. A mechanical clicking sound in her head reminds her that she is awake and alive. It reminds her of grief and heartache. "Rukia felled Kaien." That part of the story took some effort to relay. Hisana wasn't certain if it was true or if her mind had just fabricated the fact.

"Rukia?" Byakuya murmurs. The news unsettles him, and he sets the brush down so he can better study his wife.

"She said a hollow killed Miyako. Kaien went to avenge her, and he was _absorbed_ by the same hollow?" Hisana does not mean to turn the last statement into a question, but she is unfamiliar with the correct terms of art for such things. "Is that possible?" she asks, taking a seat close to her husband.

Byakuya clenches his jaw, and his gaze falls to the floor. "Yes." His expression is remote.

Hisana pinches the bridge of her nose, hoping it will relieve the pressure building at the corners of her eyes. "Either way, Rukia feels responsible for his death."

"Where was Captain Ukitake?" Byakuya asks. His voice rises defensively.

Undulating behind his spoken question is another implicit inquiry. Hisana guesses at this second meaning—that Byakuya finds Ukitake's judgment in this matter wanting—but she does not pursue it. "Rukia is not faring well. I did not want to press her. She seems like she could break very easily."

Byakuya's eyes narrow, and his lips slope into a frown.

She can tell that something unnerves him deeply.

"I will speak to Captain Ukitake in the morning," he states resolutely.

Hisana gives a nodding approval. "I will discuss the proper protocols with Rukia for giving condolences to Kaien and Miyako's surviving family." Her lips draw to the side as she considers the social intricacies.

Byakuya gently takes his wife's hand in his own, and, turning her hand palm side up, his thumb traces four red marks on her forearm. At first, Hisana does not perceive his touch. Her thoughts are too fresh and too tangled. Nothing seems to make sense, and she does not think the morning will bring much clarity. But, feeling him pull the sleeve of her kimono up, her gaze falls to hands.

_Rukia_.

A grim smile lengthens her lips, and she places her hand against his. "Will you hold me tonight?"

Wordlessly, he squeezes her hand.

* * *

**Author's Note:** So sorry about the length. Thanks for reading!

**CrescentSnow:** Yes! Rukia is freezing because of SnS's ability. If I remember correctly, SnS's abilities originate directly from Rukia's body; therefore, her temperature drops when it releases. How much it drops (e.g., absolute zero), however, I think is related to which technique she utilizes.

**Sunev.31:** Aw, I really like writing the sibling bonding moments. Thanks so much!

**Rose Attack:** I think Renji has moments of clarity that goes right over Rukia's head. (I am thinking of the adorable interaction between the pair in the anime when Rukia has to perform the celebration dance.) I hope this chapter answers some of your questions.


	14. The Grief

**Summary:** Seeking respite from her grief, Rukia asks Hisana for a story. Rukia makes a startling confession. Byakuya and Hisana discuss whether it is appropriate for Rukia to attend the funeral. Rukia gives her condolences.

* * *

**The Grief**

Propping her sister's head on her lap, Hisana gently brushes the stray hairs from Rukia's face. The tresses are stiff from a potent mixture of sweat and tears.

When Hisana stops, thinking her sister must find the caresses agitating, Rukia lifts her head.

_No, don't._

Tears swim in her dark blue eyes, but she fights them back. Expertly, she stuffs her sadness, raw and fresh, down for a moment longer.

_Anything to stop the pain._

She is desperate, broken, and pleading with herself.

"Tell me a story," Rukia murmurs, her voice weak and cracking.

_Anything will do._

_Anything to keep the silence away._

The painful, crushing silence pulls at the shadows lingering in the corridors of her mind, threatening to suffocate her. A heady mixture of sorrow, loathing, silence, and darkness rage in her veins, burn in her heart, and dance in her brain. That heady mixture will kill her. It will snuff out the flame that she labors to keep ignited deep in her heart.

Her sister stirs at the question.

Rukia can feel the muscles in her sister's thighs tighten and spasm. For a brutal moment, Rukia fears that Hisana will abandon her in that dark _silent_ room.

"I shall fetch a book from the library," her sister's voice is uncharacteristically low, a mere ghost of its usual canorous brightness.

"No," Rukia manages to force the word out through her swollen throat. She cannot bear the thought of being _alone_. A stabbing sensation shoots through her stomach. "One from memory."

Hisana is taken aback, and, swiftly, the silence floods back into Rukia's mind, filling it will cruel thoughts and even crueler memories. Again, agony pounds away in her head and across her body. Every muscle, fiber, and ligament cries out as if torture is upon them.

Sensing that her sister searches for something, anything, to say, Rukia settles her head down and says, "Tell me how you and brother met."

_Anything to kill the silence._

_Anything to distract her thoughts_.

_Even for a moment._

Her sister shifts again, and, again, Rukia fears the emptiness associated with deprivation and the harrowing feeling of being alone. But, the warmth of Hisana's slender fingers return. Her sister's touch, feather-light, travels across her scalp, and Hisana is careful to loosen the knots in her hair.

"Of course," Hisana whispers into the deep shade of the room. Her sister pauses for a moment, collecting her thoughts, before she begins: "Lord Byakuya and I met on a blistering summer evening. The heat, it was so intense, so frustratingly hot—ice water would've boiled in _minutes_."

Rukia glimpses her sister through weak eyes.

Hisana speaks with a thoughtful look painted across her face, and she uses her hands to usher in the memories.

"His family sponsored my debut into the Floating World in what was a long tradition of Kuchiki scions selecting an apprentice from my line of oiran. I was so nervous. Terribly nervous. Despite the heat, it took every fiber to keep from trembling as I played the koto for Lord Byakuya." Hisana's gaze fell to the floor, where it lingered thoughtfully.

"Two hours passed, and he did not make a sound nor did I. There was no need. I could read the words trapped in the depths of his gray gaze. He was broken—scattered into a thousand bladed pieces. Silence was his chains. Denial, his lock. Grief proved to be an effective anchor; its weight had crushed him, and, fragmented, he sat before me, telling me his tale in the best way he knew how—with his eyes.

"It took me two hours to read his look, to see past the mirror that his gaze held up to me, for I, too, sat before him in a shambles. I knew the lethargy in his stare as if it was my own. The distant apathy that he wore to perfection was my closest companion. We were kindred souls despite our relative backgrounds. No amount of pretty silk, money, or influence could hide the damage—not from those who feet it as acutely as we did.

"I was certain that I would never see him again after that evening, but, shortly after, he scheduled another appointment. The second time we met, I danced for him, and, as I danced, I prayed that he could read my body as I had read his gaze. He studied me well, and, after my dance, he left.

"During our third session, I danced for him again. I was snow, parting two lovers. At the end, I fell to the ground. And he said, 'Snow,' interpreting my story with a cool ease. And, I said, 'It falls.'

"He then did something extraordinary. He handed me a gift—a piece of his calligraphy. I took it from him with baited breath, and, looking down, I was amazed at his talent. The lines were so beautiful, so carelessly elegant. And, I read the word aloud: 'Heart.'"

Hisana holds her hands out as if holding the sheet of paper, and, reading the lines of her palms as if they are his fine brushstrokes, her voice breaks. "He glanced up at me, and, with a look so earnest, he said, 'It beats.'"

Rukia's large eyes fix her sister, and, for the first time in her life, she sees tears begin to well in Hisana's eyes.

No matter how cruel the family or other nobles are to her, her sister's sweet disposition never breaks. Not once. Yet, as Hisana recalls her brother-in-law's gentle admission of affection, tears fill her eyes.

"Well," Hisana continues, swallowing her moment of weakness, "that was it." She glances down at Rukia and dons a wry smile. "He conquered me with three words, and it was only my third appointment. I was probably the worst courtesan in the history of the profession," she says ironically.

Rukia's lips curve up into a muted smile.

Suddenly, it seems unfathomable to Rukia that her strong-willed sister could _love_ the man who would become her husband and deign to serve another. Unable to reconcile the two thoughts, Rukia murmurs a soft, "You said you served Tadahiro, though?"

_How could you?_

_You loved him._

_It doesn't make sense._

Staring into the middle distance, Hisana's eyes harden. "Yes, I did. It was no easy task. And my heart betrayed me more than my share, dear sister. It was very trying."

She pauses and closes her eyes as she tries to recompose herself.

"One of my worst memories comes from the dual roles that my profession demanded of me. You see, Lord Byakuya had given me a prized kanzashi—one that his mother had lovingly worn many years ago. It was beautiful and old, and I cherished it deeply.

"One night, I was to attend a tea with Tadahiro and a few other noblemen. Not expecting Lord Byakuya to be in attendance, I wore the hairpin out of my devotion to him, thinking that if I could not be with him, then I could have a piece of his love with me for the night. He was there, and, I suppose our eyes locked for a moment too long. Our ardor, perhaps, it was a little too noticeable.

"Tadahiro recognized it instantly, and, like a hound to the scent of blood, he snatched the kanzashi from my hair, and he toyed with it between his fingers, asking me where I had found it. I remember making up some story—purchasing it in the marketplace or something of the sort. Whether Lord Byakuya and I meant to or not, our gazes met, revealing us both in a fell swoop. In retribution, Tadahiro snapped the antique in half, declaring it 'cheap,' and saying that he would purchase one twice as nice.

"I was devastated. Absolutely devastated. It was as if a black curtain had fallen over everything I had known and loved, depriving me of it."

Rukia shuts her eyes at this.

How horrible, indeed.

What a miserable existence—to have to deny one's own heart.

For a mere moment, Rukia feels sadness, not for herself, but for her sister. Her thoughts divert from her own inner maelstrom, and she finds relief. It does not last long. But, she silently thanks her sister for the opportunity to _forget_.

"What did Brother do?"

"Nothing, at the time," Hisana says wistfully, "If he had approached Tadahiro then, he would have put my safety in jeopardy. Later, though, the two shared heated words. Words that quickly dissolved into fisticuffs. Lord Ginrei placed Lord Byakuya in confinement for a spell as punishment for his brazen actions."

"Tadahiro lost," Rukia observes, feeling a spark of satisfaction.

Her sister represses a smile. "Tadahiro lost much that season, I am afraid."

A mutual silence falls across the room. It is no longer as loathsome or as heavy as it once was. It is almost peaceful, and Rukia relishes the short lull of emotion hammering her.

That is, until, words, ugly and coarse, explode from her lips. "I never said I was sorry," Rukia blurts out. Her voice is thin, but the feeling is visceral and powerful. Immediately, she feels a weight settle against her chest. It is heavy, and she fears it will crush her.

Hisana makes a small noncommittal noise. It is soft, but it is enough for Rukia to know her sister has not understood her. She isn't sure if she can repeat her admission, but she tries all the same: "When I presented Vice Captain Shiba's body, I didn't tell his family that I was sorry."

Hisana's muscles flutter under Rukia's cheek. She can hear her sister's shock. She can hear it in the slight creaking sounds that echo in Hisana's joints and bones.

"Do you wish to give your condolences, Rukia?"

The question enters Rukia's ears as a statement. It is quiet, subtle even. But it is unmistakably a statement: _You must give your condolences, Rukia. It is the proper thing to do_.

Reflexively, Rukia shakes her head, but she does not air her refusal. Not with words. She knows her sister's assessment is correct, but fear, cold and punishing, clamps her tongue down.

_Cowardice_, her inner voice notes mordantly.

Yes, she acknowledges her moment of weakness. She _was_ a coward then. Now? Now, grief has seized her, and there is a gulf. It is not a visible rift, she knows, but the psychological distance keeps her at bay. She does not wish to return to the Shiba residence. She does not want to intrude on the family again. Not after last time, when her last intrusion ripped it apart.

"The funeral, Rukia," Hisana begins, "You should come with us."

Rukia lifts her head enough to glimpse her sister. Hisana is deathly serious. Again, it is a command, not a recommendation.

"Are you certain?" A deluge of questions and concerns imbues Rukia's brain. Will Brother protest? Is it wise? What will others think?

"Your presence is permissible, Rukia."

_Permissible_ was a code for _approved_. Either the Thirteenth or the Shiba family approved Rukia, which means….

Tears begin to stream down her cheeks.

Where will she find the resolution?

* * *

"Are you certain this is prudent?" Byakuya turns to his wife, and he focuses his attention on her. His look is one of quiet contemplation. He asks because he seeks counsel not because he already knows the answer and hopes she agrees.

"Yes, Lord Byakuya," Hisana replies. Her voice is both stern but gentle.

"It may be hard for her," Byakuya reasons.

Hisana nods. She knows her husband has a propensity to be over-protective of his family. He tries as hard as he can to spare the ones he loves from pain at every turn. Sometimes, she wonders if he is attempting to make up for the pain he has had to endure. Perhaps all the loss, all the grief, and all the protocols have injured him more than he lets on?

Hisana studies her husband with a keen eye. "It will be hard for her," she says. "But, it will be harder fifty years from now."

"It could break her," he observes, his voice low and his expression pensive.

"Then we will have to build her back up," comes his wife's confident response.

His eyes drop to the floor. "Very well."

Hisana moves to his side. "I will fetch her."

And fetch Rukia, she does.

The walk to the Shiba estate is taken in silence. Not even the birds dare to chirp. There is only an oppressive stillness, and that stillness sinks in from the skin before it rattles around in the bones.

Rukia keeps her head bowed low and her eyes trained on the ground. In abject horror, she watches as the terrain morphs from lush grass to yellow cobblestones to a dirt trail. Yes, she remembers the way to Kaien's home.

How she wishes she doesn't.

She enters the estate. She says her condolences. She breaks. Piece by piece, she feels her walls crumble as she kneels before Kaien's sister. The words just fall. They hit the floor and shatter.

It is all a blur. It comes to her in muted shades of sadness. It is as if her world has been shot in the same blacks and blues that paint her mindscape. It is extraordinary. _It is extraordinary and crushing._

She feels like death. Her presence parts crowds. It draws whispers and gasps. She hears some of what is uttered but not the whole of it. For that, she is eternally grateful.

"I am sorry."

The words sound in her ears, but she is uncertain whether she spoke them. Perhaps it was her sister? Hisana's voice sounds very much like her own.

It was probably Hisana, she reasons.

She glances up to see Kūkaku glaring down at her. The woman looks like she is going to pounce, like she is going to pummel her. She could use a good pummeling, Rukia thinks. Maybe a fist to the face is just what she needs to rouse from her dormant dreariness. She certainly would not deny the woman her right to seek vengeance.

Kūkaku does not punch her. No. The woman stares down at Rukia. Her gaze reveals her pain, but it is steely. It nips at Rukia. It overwhelms her.

"I am sorry," Rukia says, or, at least this time, she is fairly certain she says.

Kūkaku's lips move. Sound should be coming out, but Rukia cannot hear it. She cannot hear a single word. The noise is just too loud, just too deafening.

"I am sorry," Rukia repeats. Her voice echoes in the halls of her mind until it is all she can hear.

Kūkaku punches her. Hard. The force of the punch lands Rukia flat on her back, but she is quick enough to sit up. Wide-eyed, she stares at the strange woman, the strange woman who looks so much like Kaien.

"Thank you," Rukia says, cupping her wounded cheek with the palm of her hand. Remnants from the ground—grit and leaves—press in a scratchy amalgamate against her face, but she leaves it. It requires too much effort to _care_ about such trifling things as appearance.

Kūkaku lifts her head, eying Rukia. While the lines of her face are smooth, despair and grief still linger in her eyes. The emotion is deep and visceral, acutely held. But, there are no traces of anger or disgust on her visage.

Rukia sucks in a shaky breath as she recognizes Kūkaku's gaze. It is the same gaze that Rukia dons. In that moment, they are kindred spirits, suffering through a great loss.

There is no animosity. No hatred. No bad blood. If there were, Rukia would know.

Judging by how hard she punches, Kūkaku doesn't seem like the type to hold back.

Just like her brother.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** As always, thanks for reading!

**Robot-ninja-wizard accountant:** Thanks so much! It means the world. And, I agree with your assessment whole-heartedly. Kaien's death was a huge moment for Rukia, and I suppose, despite Rukia having a better social support system in this set up, it will still be. How her friends pitch in to help build her back up (as briefly alluded to in this chapter) gets better explored in the next (and final) installment of this part.

**VioTanequil:** Thanks so much! (I will leave your question unanswered for now!)

**Rose Attack:** I think your first question should be answered soon, and, hopefully, their childlessness will be resolved soon, too!

**Sunev.31:** Thanks so much! The updates have been relatively quick for this part of the story because much of it was written a while ago.


	15. The Hardest Lesson

**Summary: **Hoping to assuage her sister's grief, Hisana seeks some help. Renji attempts to distract Rukia from thoughts of her past trauma, to little avail. Byakuya, also, tries his hand at helping a struggling Rukia through her bereavement process.

* * *

**The Hardest Lesson**

Not for another second, Hisana thinks to herself. She will not endure another second of her sister's misery, and her sister _will not endure_ another second of misery. If she has to pull down the entire infrastructure of Soul Society to do it, Rukia will find peace.

Luckily, Hisana finds a solution that _does not involve_ ripping asunder the fabric of Soul Society. Instead, her solution is seemingly elegant. Almost dumb-obvious. Needless to say, her scheme does require some casting aside of self-preservation and, perhaps, it involves some modicum of recklessness on her part.

Sure, there is _probably_ a better way to do it.

But, she has had enough, and waltzing into the Eleventh proves particularly _easy_.

She goes to the gate, announces her title and her intention to speak with Renji, and she is summarily ushered in with a, "Meh," and a limp-wristed wave. The guard goes back to gazing into some magazine after shooting her a bloodthirsty onceover. His gaze could strip flesh off the bone, she thinks to herself. But, there is nothing sexual about it. It is all brutality and gore.

Suddenly, she feels like fresh carrion dropped into a wolf's den.

Hesitantly, she moves through the gate. The division layout is the same as the Sixth's and the Thirteenth's, and, briefly, she wonders if most of the divisions have the same configuration. _Seems like a bad idea_, she notes to herself as she crosses into the division proper. _Would make it easy to infiltrate_.

Hisana, however, has a _hunch_. If Rukia is the fifth seat of Thirteen and Renji is the sixth seat of Eleven and the arrangement is the same, then Renji's quarters must be situated near where Rukia's is at Thirteen.

Keeping her eyes glued to the floor, Hisana follows the hardwood. She can almost read the grain, she stares so intensely. But no amount of sinking into her robes and fixing her gaze can drown out the commotion that her presence seems to elicit.

Apparently, the Eleventh is short on _women_. Or, at least, women who dress like she does. And, she is unsure of whether it provokes the men sexually or violently. If she were a betting woman, she would place her money on the latter.

Suddenly, worriment crashes over her.

Not once has she ever felt for her own safety while roaming the halls of the Sixth, the Thirteenth, or the Twelfth, for that matter. The Eleventh, however, quickly rips off her armor and tosses it out the window.

It feels like a powder keg, and she has just ignited the match.

And, suddenly, she realizes that her husband's title will not save her. Not in these halls. Not with these men.

She quickens her step. Her gait lengthens. Her footfalls are light, and she pulls her shoulders up slightly. _Slinking_ would have been too kind a description for how carefully she traverses the hallway.

Picking up her pace, she zooms toward where she prays Renji is. She is just about to step in front of the door when a sound stops her dead.

"Whatcha _doing_?" The voice is dark, low, and it hints at the ruthlessness of its possessor.

Hisana starts and gives a short gasp. "Oh, hello." Her recovery is _professional_. Years of pretending to feel something that she didn't proves quite useful now.

She flashes a sweet smile and sports a bright-eyed look.

_Not working_, she observes, deflated. Nope. Not even a little. _What luck_, she groans inwardly as she studies the Shinigami blocking her way.

The strange man is at least a foot taller than she is. He has a stout build, with thick meaty arms and a thick meaty neck. His features are large and ill proportioned on his round head. His nose appears to have been broken _several _times, and it is a different hue from the rest of his face. It is almost _purple_, and it is large and bumpy.

She bites back the urge to grimace. _Good girl_, she praises herself, holding her look of kind repose as she waits for him to respond.

He does not. Unless _leering_ counts. He is a _world class_ leer-er.

"I am looking for Mr. Abarai's room," she says gently, hoping he isn't someone _official _like the Vice Captain's long-lost brother.

"I don't know no _Mr. Abarais_, but if yer lookin' for _rooms_, mine's available."

Her smile weakens, and her heart drops. Right to her stomach. She nearly chokes on her pulse—it beats so fast in her throat—and her blood rushes so quickly to her head that she wobbles a little. "Well, I am looking for Mr. Abarai. I just assumed he would be in his room, which is right here."

He stares at her. _Hungrily_. "Is that right?" he snarls and places his hand on the wall near her head, trapping her between his body and his arm. With his other hand, he takes the sleeve of her kimono, and he brings the silk to his face. He inhales a deep breath, his eyes skimming the fabric until they lock on her.

Hisana inhales and exhales with equal measure. _Ah._ She knows _that_ look a little too _well_. At last, she has something to work with. Opening her eyes, she fashions a soft smile and her gaze coyly trails to the ground. "Maybe you know him? He is tall. Has long red hair," she manages in a low breathy voice. "Dangerous."

Gods, she _hopes_ Renji can fell this brute.

Dropping the sleeve of her kimono, he violently pins her to the wall. "Don't know of any _dangerous_ redheads 'round these parts." His hand travels from the small of her back and begins to trace the gentle slope of her waist.

Hisana lifts her head in a regal arch, and she cocks a brow. Oh, what fine new torture has she wrought upon herself this time?

* * *

Drinking. Ugh. It sounded like such a great idea last night, Renji thinks to himself as he readjusts the cold compress against his head. His room is pitch-black, and the air is thick with the smell of male musk and stale liquor.

It _was_ a fucking great idea _last night_. His division always seems much livelier when he is _drunk_. Maybe it was because everyone else was drunk off their balls, too?

But, _damn_, the aftermath.

He can feel each and every nerve ending pulsate in his head, spark in his temples, and fire Gatling-gun-style across his neck and back. Even the air currents set off a volley of angry fuses that whip across his innards. Sounds? Forget it. Might as well take a hammer to his brain. It would be quicker. Probably less painful, too.

What were they even celebrating? _Were _they even celebrating? Maybe it was a Tip Til You're Pissed Tuesday? Or was it Arbor Day? Something. And it involved the color _green_.

Never mind, he huffs, turning his head to the side. He isn't due to be functional until 2300 hours. He's got _plenty of time_ to sober up. So much time.

_Thud_.

He jerks up at the sound of his door rattling.

_What the hell?_

No telling, he thinks to himself. Probably a brawl. There's always a brawl happening somewhere at the Eleventh. Today it is at his door. It was bound to happen at some point.

He lays his head back down, but the sound of a woman's voice pulls him back out of bed. _Rukia?_ He furrows his brows. _Can't be_. What the hell would she be doing at the Eleventh? She would stick out like a sore thumb.

Before he can settle back down, his stupid imagination yanks him up and forces him to march his grumpy ass to the door. He can hear one of his division mates booming loudly a stone's throw away.

"Goddamn it, Tarou!" he barks, flinging back the door. "I am hung-over as fu—" before he can complete his rebuke, his whole body goes numb. His heart stops mid-beat in his chest, and his lungs empty in one exhalation.

_Holy shit, no!_

Lady Kuchiki ducks under Tarou's arm and is standing before him. Front and center. And, he hasn't even had the chance to cinch his floral-pattern dressing gown. At all.

He could've _died_. Right then. Right there.

Realizing his state only a moment before he does, she immediately turns her head and shields her eyes with a sleeved arm. "I was looking for you, Mr. Abarai," she murmurs smoothly, like water lapping against a flat pebble.

Swiftly, he retreats into his quarters and snatches up his uniform. The fabric becomes jumpy and tangled in his hands, and he struggles to get the damn thing on. _She didn't see everything, _he tries to persuade himself, but the shock painted across the prim Lady's face convinces him otherwise.

"Is this your woman?" Tarou's baritone rumbles in his ears. The sound instantly sets every one of Renji's nerves on fire, and a cold rage flows through him, replacing his blood with pure explosive hatred.

"No," Renji growls as he slides his Zanpakutō into his hakama-himo. "She's Captain Kuchiki's woman." Renji moves into the doorway, and he arches a brow. "If you touch her, you better pray I kill you first because her husband will fucking _vivisect_ you."

Tarou stares down at her, as if he is trying to remember her from somewhere. Then his face lights up like a goddamn firework. "So _you're_ the Angel of Small Death, eh?"

What. The. Hell? Angel of Small Death? That's a _new_ one. Never heard the Lady referred to by that name before.

Renji's stare hardens at the sight of Tarou. _What an idiot_.

It's like the dolt has met a _celebrity_. But, it isn't the sort of celebrity that Renji associates with the Kuchiki Lord and Lady. No, it's not the excited but appropriate exaltation that comes with being part of the Five Noble Families. It's more like Tarou has just met his favorite pinup girl. His eyes go all googly, and he practically slobbers on her silken kimono.

Renji's got _nothing_.

Part of him feels like he should punch Tarou in the face for propriety's sake. Another part of him feels pity for Tarou, and it's not like the Lady seems put out about it. She doesn't look at all perturbed. Not in the _slightest_. In fact, she seems wickedly amused.

"Is it true?" Tarou whispers _loudly_. "What they say, I mean?"

_Super covert_. Renji shakes his head slowly at the man's level of obviousness. _Subtle as a jackhammer._

Lady Kuchiki, however, gets a strange glint in her eyes. Like a wildfire, the glint spreads across her countenance until she is donning a devious expression—the type of look that a wild cat gets when it's about to pounce on some hapless gazelle—and she lifts her head close to Tarou's ear. The two do not touch yet it _seems_ like their bodies press against one another. With a sultry grin, she whispers something against the shell of his ear. Her words, however, do not reach Renji, even though he is trying his hardest to _hear_ her.

Whatever she says, Renji can't help but _feel_ it's pornographic. There is just something about the way her pink lips bud out as she speaks. And there is something bewitching about the way her eyes are set, half-lidded and distant as the words roll off her tongue like honey. She can be so engrossing, so hypnotizing, at times.

Renji feels her reiatsu flare. It comes as a quick flash, like a lightning bolt, but it is soothing, tantalizing almost. Unconsciously, he leans forward as if she is reeling him in with her spiritual pressure. The world goes a little hazy.

When she is done, Tarou gives a short pitiful whimper before crashing to the ground in a trembling heap.

Lady Kuchiki does not acknowledge the commotion as she reaches her hand out for Renji. Without hesitation, he steadies her, and she carefully steps around the _puddle_ that once was Tarou.

Gracefully, she moves to Renji's side, and she offers him a kind smile, but, before she can speak, a loud raucous chuckle breaks across the crowd that gathers to see the _fight_.

Ignoring the riotous noise and vulgar catcalls, the Lady shoots Renji a sobering sidelong glance. Her gaze is dark and serious. "It is Rukia," she says in a hushed voice.

Renji's brows furrow. _Oh, right. _Lady Kuchiki probably doesn't just _drop by_ the Eleventh without good reason. She has come to collect him, and, since it's in person, he can only assume the worst. "Of course," he says, nodding.

"Thank you," she mouths to him.

He shakes his head. It's Rukia. That's all he needs to know.

As the two approach the front of the division, Lady Kuchiki goes stock still, and she draws close to him. So close that he can almost feel her shiver under her robes. It is merely the fluttering of her robes, but he knows that she trembles. "What is _that_?" she asks, eyes panning the edifice.

Renji gives a wolfish smile. "Captain Kenpachi."

Her eyes widen, and he can hear her suck in a deep breath. "_The_ Kenpachi?"

He blinks. Has she never met him? He finds it unfathomable, but he supposes it is possible. It's not like Kenpachi would be invited to or would _attend_, if he were invited, noble functions.

"Yeah," Renji says, pulling back a door. And there Kenpachi stands, towering over them.

"Tarou fell down!" Yachiru chirps from her place perched on Kenpachi's shoulder.

Renji swallows.

_Yep, he did_.

"Good afternoon, Captain and Vice Captain," he says and bows politely. _Don't look at her. Don't look at her,_ he chants to himself. Gods, why didn't Lady Kuchiki send a courier?

"You do that?" Kenpachi asks, staring down at the Lady. His face is perfectly unreadable as he observes her.

"It was me," Renji lies. Lady Kuchiki isn't dying on _his_ watch. Not today. "Punched him. Real hard."

Kenpachi's gaze shifts to Renji. "Like I taught ya?"

"Yes, sir."

Kenpachi then turns back to the Lady. "What's she doing here?"

"A friend," Renji says cooly.

"She fight?"

Renji shakes his head vigorously. "No, no, no."

_Hell, no!_ He doubts she could win a battle against a particularly lively _curtain_ let alone one of the Eleventh's men.

"Too bad," Kenpachi says flatly, but his stare insinuates that he is aware of why men bring women into the barracks. He then steps around Renji. "When Six comes looking for you with blood in his eye, send him my way," Kenpachi commands with a glimmer of visceral excitement sparking in his features.

_What? _Renji blinks. _I am Six. I'm the sixth seat. Did I get demoted? _And, yet, Renji nods his understanding. Anything to get Lady Kuchiki out of the Eleventh alive. "Yes, sir."

If the infamous _Six_ ever shows up ready to murder him, he'll send the guy Kenpachi's way. Wrapped up and with a bow.

"Good afternoon, Lady Kuchiki," Kenpachi states as he steps through the door.

"Good afternoon, Captain Kenpachi," she replies with a small bow.

_Holy shit!_

His eyes go wide as realization hits him like an anvil to the head.

_Fuck. Six is Captain Kuchiki!_

No one would really think that? That he? And she? Together? He can't even put it together in the same thought. No other sane person would, right?

* * *

Rukia appreciates Renji's kindness.

Really.

She does.

She keeps telling herself this, and that must count for _something_. Yet, she cannot summon the strength to muster one smile. And, gods, has the boy earned it. If _anyone_ has _ever had_ a right to one of her smiles—it is Renji right then.

How she wishes she could, and she prays a bold glance in his direction will suffice. It isn't one of those teary-eyed, 'oh my life is a horrible pile of abject misery,' looks either; although, she has given him enough of those today.

She has become a damn expert at stowing away in the darkness of her mind. She knows the shadows lingering in her inner psyche better than anyone. Those shadows and she have become intimate friends. Besties. She seeks them out even when her _real_ friend is trying his level best to pull her attention away from such idle torture.

He has nearly succeeded. The pain, fresh and raw, has diminished under his care. His method? Distractions. So many distractions. She swears he has gone all out.

First, it started when he _saw _her. Immediately, there was a row. He chastised her for sleeping in the middle of the day. The gall! Tossing her uniform and her Zanpakutō at her, he demanded she act appropriate for her age and rank.

She remembers peeling herself off the futon, which was no small feat considering a potent mixture of blood, sweat, and tears kept her cemented in place.

After a good-natured _harangue_, he informed her of the day he had _scheduled_ specifically for her.

She nearly dove under the covers at his pronouncement. Getting dressed was already asking too much. Leaving the manor to_ do things_? Unfathomable.

She probably tossed him a stone-faced rebuke. She doesn't really remember. It just _feels_ like something that she would have done. He didn't listen, if she did.

He never does.

_How_ _typical_.

Apparently, the first event on the _schedule_ was pummeling the sadness out of her. Or, at least, that's what she _thought_ when he pushed her ragdoll-limp body toward the Eleventh, where a good pummeling commenced. It didn't work.

In hindsight, she thinks he probably had a few division responsibilities to take of before he could properly commence Mission: Feel Better.

Either way, after she was good and bludgeoned, they took tea with Momo and Kira. It was a late lunch. Kira and Momo were appropriately kind and respectful, but it felt like they were talking circles around the elephant in the room, which kept her on edge. But there was something calming about having friends nearby. It staved off the darkness, keeping her mind occupied and the shadows away.

Now, he hands her a soft plush bunny. She hesitates, knowing the small token of his affection probably cost him a month's salary. He, however, is undeterred, and she would never injure his feelings. Not intentionally, anyway.

She hugs the Chappy stuffed animal close to her chest. She hopes it will warm her heart—her cold still heart. It beats, but barely.

"C'mon," he says, nudging her shoulder with an elbow.

Her frown deepens. _C'mon, don't feel so bad_, his sentiments scream in her ears. But, she can't help it. Everything hurts. It is an aching, wintry kind of pain, and she wonders if she will ever thaw. Maybe there are some things—some events—that are too much for one to bear? Maybe the weight of those events only lead to a slow crumbling of the soul? Maybe, piece by piece, she will dissolve? She already feels it. The color bleeds from the tapestry of life, leaving only the blackness. She wonders: How long can one survive in the twilight of hope?

"Thank you," she musters. The reverberations of her voice are coarse and irritate the sensitive lining of her throat.

Reflexively, she runs her fingertips across the Chappy doll's head. The feeling of the soft woven fabric against the pads of her fingers brings her a small relief. Her eyes fall to the toy's perpetually smiling face.

Her heart stirs. It is painful pang. The pang quickly travels down her nervous system, spreading like wildfire across her limbs and back.

Will her resolve ever return? Is it even possible? She is at a loss for how one pieces oneself back together. Is it a day-by-day kind of deal? Is the pain supposed to recede like waves pulling from the shore? Or, is it more of an active process?

Gods, how she does not want it to be an active process. She doesn't know if she can handle it. And, what if she doesn't put herself together properly? Will she be permanently broken? Always on the verge of crumbling?

"It is getting late," Renji's voice shatters her somber thoughts.

She glances up to find him staring down at her with a hooded look. _Great_, she thinks to herself, _I've made him upset now. _

His gaze flits to the firmament. The stars are beginning to twinkle among the thick velvety clouds, and he inhales a deep breath. The balmy summer air saturates them, and he seems content, like a dog preparing a soulful song to the moon. "Are you hungry?"

She shakes her head. "No." She hasn't had much of an appetite since the _event_. She took tea at lunch, but she did not touch the accompanying food.

"You've gotta be," Renji remarks, and he pulls her along. "You haven't eaten anything all day."

She stops abruptly. "No, Renji," she says, this time with more force behind her words. "I appreciate everything, but," before she has the chance to complete her sentence, she is interrupted.

An unmistakable baritone wafts over them. The voice is soft but commanding, muted but piercing. Both Rukia and Renji turn into its sound before they comprehend the words.

"Brother," Rukia greets, and she bows low.

Renji mumbles Byakuya's titled surname, and he bows his head.

Neither has understood the Captain's words nor comprehended his meaning. Instead, they stare at him with apprehensive looks before dropping their eye-lines to the ground. Counting cobblestones has always proven effective at restoring keenness to an otherwise dull expression.

"Come, Rukia," he commands in a subdued tenor.

Instantly, her muscles spark in response to his order. She is a good pace in before she replies, "Yes, Brother." Quickly, she does a half turn and bows to Renji, giving him a sharp nod of her head.

With a dim smile, he returns her gesture, clearly understanding her silent appreciation.

"My gratitude, Abarai," Byakuya states, and he pauses for a stride.

Renji jitters at the sound of his name, and he regards the captain with a wide-eyed expression of _terror_. Rukia gives her friend a quick onceover, a little taken aback by the _shock_ marring Renji's countenance. He probably wasn't aware that her brother even knew who he was, let alone would think enough to address him formally.

"Anything for the Lady," Renji manages belatedly, as if his mouth has filled with marbles.

Byakuya gives Renji a sharp sidelong glare.

Renji bows lower, "Captain Kuchiki," he adds sheepishly.

Byakuya's gaze travels to Rukia. He does not seem completely _satisfied_ with Renji's answer, but he lets it go. "Come."

Rukia gives Renji another nodding look before she turns to trail after her brother. She does not ask questions. She barely _processes_ what is happening. Wondering the how, why, and where would require too much cognitive effort for her.

She probably should have.

Byakuya is clearly expecting it. He probably fancies her a fool for _not_ _inquiring_. He can be terribly critical of her faults.

Instead of admonishing her, he stares at her.

How long has he been staring at her? Hell if she knows. Probably hours. He isn't really the type to correct her before she has realized the error of her ways.

When her gaze meets his gray eyes, she immediately flushes. The heat that sings through her, however, is a strange one. It is icy, but it reddens the skin. It burns and chills with equal measure.

Once she shakes the fiery and frozen tendrils back, she realizes they are not on the Kuchiki property. No. A quick sweep of her surroundings informs her that they stand in a forest. A very familiar forest—the one leading to Mount Koifushi.

_Cripes, how far have we walked?_

Had she endured a coma halfway through? Is he merely waking her up?

In a stroke of a second, she realizes that, yes, indeed, her brother is providing her with a much needed wake up call.

Despite the languor of fatigue and melancholy, she is surprisingly spry on her feet. "What?" she chokes between strikes and counters.

Doesn't he already know she has been pummeled today? If any group of people were going to beat her to her senses, it would have been the Eleventh. They are a pretty persistent group.

She dodges a few rounds of kidou with relative ease.

"Very good, Rukia," he states before resting a hand on the hilt of his blade.

Immediately, she responds in kind. It is the first time in days, but her heart beats like a war drum in her chest, and her senses focus on something beyond the gloom clouding her mind. "Yes, Brother," she murmurs, panting.

"A hypothetical," he begins between parries.

She did not like where this is going. It is a sixth sense—a sinking sixth sense. She feels the bile, pungent and acrid, climb up her throat.

"I have defected and killed your red-headed ruffian friend. What do you do?"

Pure shock freezes her hand pitifully in place, and she stands, staring at him in frosty panic. Her chest clenches, purging the breath from her lungs. She struggles. To breath. To think. To move.

"I-I-I," she stammers, trying her best to train the tremor from her hand.

"Too late, you are dead and so is your whole squad," he says, flash-stepping to her back and pressing his hilt against her back. It is his favorite technique—the first one she learned to defend against.

"Again," he commands. "I have defected, killed your friend, and, now, _you_," he stops short, giving her the right-of-way.

"I ask you," she tries again, this time with a firmer tone.

"Dead," he murmurs dispassionately. This time his blade stops a hairsbreadth from her throat.

She marvels at his control. Just a millimeter closer, and she would have felt Senbonzakura's bite.

"Again," he repeats, growing impatient as he sets up the strike. "I have defected, killed your best friend, and you are the only thing standing between me and the Thirteenth." Like before, he waits for her to make the first move.

"Why?" she cries. Desperately, she wants to know. Why would he defect? Why her? Why Renji? There must be a reason? Anything to keep her from wielding her blade against someone she loves.

"The matter at this point is irrelevant, Rukia," he states, easily defeating her pathetic attempt to parry. "Dead," he notes, pointing the tip of his blade at her heart. "Again."

She resists the urge to shake her head, to protest. Her heart screams out inside her chest. Her body rails against her, loud and furiously. But, she presses her lips tightly together until she can taste blood.

She will not cry. She will not sob. _There will be no tears_.

"I am not myself. I have killed your friend, and I will kill everyone who you love. What do you do?" His voice is cold, and it is bladed.

It cuts her to the quick, and she responds viscerally, unsure of whether it was his words or his sword that moved on her first. Her reply, however, is instinctual and swift, belying her Inuzuri upbringing. A flurry of moves and countermoves leaves her in a familiar pose, with her sword fighting to pierce her brother through the chest. He keeps her efforts solidly at bay, but she can't help it. She sees Kaien all over again, and she gives out a penetrating cry.

"I would kill you," she nearly chokes on the words. Their truth steals her strength, enervating every muscle and nerve in her body.

The moment that she feels his pressure relent, she falls on bended knee, and she braces her weight against her sword, plunged deep into the earth. Every fiber trembles, and, for a moment, she dissociates, unable to take the pain as it swells and surges through her.

Upon reaching her conclusion, her heart drops, her stomach tenses, and she falls numb, lost in the darkness of cruel thoughts and even crueler feelings. "I am a monster." There it is, The Truth. She has spoken The Truth. She has said it aloud, hoping her brother will finally see her for what she is and _hate_ her for her weakness.

He, however, does no such thing.

Instead, he places a tender conciliatory hand against her shoulder. His touch immediately stops the endless spasms that set her muscles aflutter. His warmth settles her. It calms her soul, and it eases her mind. And, she wonders whether her brother is employing some super-secret kidou technique to quell the maelstrom.

Threading the remnants of her tattered resolve into something workable, she lifts her gaze to find her brother standing in equipoise over her. He is firm, he is strong, and he is not about to leave her side.

She bows her head in shame. She does not deserve such kindness. Doesn't he know? She just told him. She told him everything. She is not only capable of killing someone whom she cherishes, but she will do it almost instinctually.

She is a _monster_.

"Perhaps, then, we are all monsters, Rukia," he says resolutely.

Shakily, she lifts her head, and she meets his gaze. She searches him, hoping—no _praying_—there is another way to interpret his meaning. But, there isn't. There is not one single line or wrinkle that betokens his repugnance. In fact, he appears quite serene, and he squeezes her shoulder comfortingly.

Maybe, just maybe, she isn't a monster. She will have to contemplate this possibility, turn it over in her head for a while. See where it leads her.

But, at least, for now, it is a _distinct_ _possibility_.

* * *

"You were at the Eleventh yesterday," Byakuya notes matter-of-factly between brush strokes. His voice is so quiet, so even that she barely catches the observation.

Hisana starts. Her heart rattles in her chest, and her eyes widen. So news of her little adventure to the Eleventh has reached her poor, unsuspecting husband_. Great._ She wonders briefly: Just how much has he been told? Just how generous or spiteful was the commentary? How many people knew? What was the attack rate on this sort of information? She doesn't want to know. Knowing would only serve to make her more paranoid than she already is.

"Yes," she murmurs, pausing briefly to smother a wolfish grin with a sleeve-covered hand, "I forgot to tell you—what with my torrid affair with Renji Abarai and all." Immediately, she winces, regretting her teasing sentiment. Her heart freezes in her chest, and her cheeks redden. The words come off too brazen and too clumsy.

Byakuya's eyes widen, and he turns to shoot her a sidelong glance.

Clearly, his informant has neglected certain _details_ in the transmission.

Shaking her head, she snorts a small sigh. "There was quite a scene."

_To put it lightly_.

Apparently, sexual harassment is how members of the Eleventh say, "hello."

Instinctively, her gaze drifts to the newspaper at Byakuya's elbow.

He reads her look, and, without a second thought, he snaps the newsprint open and turns to page six.

_So, he knows where the Society Section is_, Hisana muses to herself. A brow quirks at the observation. Oh, how her husband's predilections never cease to surprise her.

It does not take him long to find the story. It is large and splashy, soaking up a fair share of ink. It is the sort of piece that practically demands the reader's attention.

_Slow news day_, she groans inwardly to herself.

As he reads the article, a mixture of horror and bemusement colors his features. His forehead creases, and his brows knit together. "What is the meaning of this?" The question is aimed at himself as his eyes hungrily rove the accompanying text.

She cranes her head to get a glimpse of the story. Her heart sinks and her breath catches in her chest. It looks worse than she imagined. The picture is lurid, and the interpretation of events is borderline erotic—a double whammy. Whom has she upset at the Ninth? she wonders miserably to herself.

Leveling a sigh into the ether, she scrutinizes the image a moment longer. There she and Renji were; she demurely shielding her face, and Renji owning his dishabille like it was his job.

Byakuya's eyes fix on Renji's semi-nude form. He looks mortified, and she can only _imagine _what her husband thinks of the strange casual wear.

"That is how Renji opens the door," she notes nonchalantly, hoping to break the tense expression on his face. Only the gods know what Renji wears to _bed_. Probably nothing.

Byakuya turns to her; his astonishment is clear. He blinks. Once, twice, thrice. Clearly, words elude him, but the expression is as plain as day on his face: _Who opens their door half-dressed?_

_Renji does_, Hisana retorts inwardly at her husband's questioning stare.

Byakuya's gaze returns to the story for a beat longer. Shaking his head, he closes his eyes, inhales a deep breath, folds the paper and places it on his desk. Ordering his thoughts, his gaze trails to her. "Your sister's state worsened," he observes astutely.

His voice comes over her like the sharpened blade of a sword bearing down on a neck. He doesn't _mean_ to sound cold or mechanical, she reminds herself. His cool perspicacity is the result of years of brutal training at the knee of the Kuchiki elders.

She nods, long and slow. "I thought Renji's company would ease her spirits."

There is no need to explain to him the how or why she came to that conclusion. There is no need to beg for forgiveness for any misinterpretation of her intention or her character. He already knows instinctively that her heart beats pure and true. He reads her motives well, and he does not question her virtue.

Softening his gaze, he asks, "Did he?"

She smiles gently at her husband's bluntness. "I think so."

She _knows so_.

Within moments of entering Rukia's chambers, Renji had accomplished more than she had managed. She both admires and envies Renji's effect on Rukia. Sometimes, she feels as if she needs a decoder ring to discern her sister's emotions, but he always knows just what to do and just what to say. This, however, serves as painful reminder of the fact that he knows how to read her sister because he has had _years _of practice, having been the one to look out for Rukia after her abandonment. If only she had been stronger, better, thriftier then _she_ would be the one who knows how to best comfort her own blood. The conclusion tears her to shreds, and she is quick to cut her mind on thoughts of being second best.

_Old habits die hard._

"Good," Byakuya says, slightly raising the volume of his voice.

Hisana inclines her head, and her violet gaze flutters to his face. _Good_. His reply serves a purpose, she reminds herself. He is a deliberate man after all. He spoke to effect her, to draw her from her string of self-deprecating thoughts. He knows her dark looks and what they entail from years of _practice_.

_Yes, it is good that Rukia has such a kind friend. _

Hisana smiles brightly at her husband, taking a moment to appreciate his insight. He knows her better than anyone else does. At times, he knows her better than she knows herself.

"Thank you," she murmurs, pressing her hand against his and squeezing. The connection is fleeting but heartily felt. When her warmth receded, she swears she can detect a glimmer of want burning in his gray eyes.

Without a word, she moves to the door. She knows his gaze tracks her. She can feel its heat against her back. She also knows that he will not speak the question burning on his lips: _Where are you going? _

Drawing the door back in a graceful fluttering movement, she scoots across the threshold and turns to close the door behind her. Just as she had been taught years ago. Like a proper lady. "To fetch your tea, milord," she replies knowingly to his silent query.

Before the door clacks shut, she peers inside the room. A mere sliver is all she needs to see the small smile that thins Byakuya's lips.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks again for reading! This is the last chapter of Part III!


	16. Part IV: Of Family, Friends, and Foes

**Part IV: Of Family, Friends, and Foes**

_Bright red_

_The pitiless sun_

_Autumn winds_

_ –__Matsuo Basho_

**_Approximately 24 years later…_**


	17. The Changing Guard

**Summary:** Byakuya discusses his wife's infertility with a clan elder. Rukia receives her first marriage proposal. In a battle of the wills, Byakuya manages to elicit important information from Hisana.

* * *

**The Changing Guard**

"Bad dirt," Aunt Masuyo murmurs under her breath.

Again?

"Nothing will make it fertile."

Just one more time.

"Nothing will grow in it."

From the top.

"She is like bad dirt, milord."

With feeling, now.

"Milord, are you listening to me?"

Upon hearing the high upward inflection harden the last syllable, Byakuya's writing hand tenses. His fingers curl hard and fast against the handle of the brush. So hard and fast, the bristles bleed their ink. The black dye wets the paper. It spreads quickly, seeping into the fibers and spreading across the page. When the ink ceases its encroachment, the writing is nothing more than an unsightly stain.

The work is ruined. He reaches for another form. This one simply will not do. Not at all.

His thoughts are dark and thick, centered wholly on his work. He has fifty incident reports, and his Vice Captain is about to take an indefinite leave of absence. Yet, despite all of his worries and all of his obligations hovering low in his mind, he hears his aunt's sigh rustle in his ears.

It is a heavy breath—the kind that ends on a nasally whine. The sound unnerves him, and he represses the grimace tugging at his lips. The glower that transmutes his once stony gaze, however, proves too tempting to stifle. And, glowering deeply into his ink well, he finds the color of the ink to match the shade of his mood: Black.

_She_ unnerves him. Always has. Likely, she always will. For eternity and likely beyond.

Part of him thinks she tortures him because he has what she wanted for herself so many long years ago. She, too, had married a soul from the Rukon districts. Her husband had been a strong man. He had great potential. Perhaps, he had too much potential. He had used her, however. He had loved ambition with greater purpose and abandon than he had loved her. Maybe he had never loved her.

Either way, her marriage had ended very _poorly_.

That must have been painful, Byakuya thinks, has thought, and will sometimes remind himself. But, just before his pity reaches its crest, she always says something disgraceful.

"The family will permit you a second wife. We have discussed this option at length, and we believe it is the best course of action. All things considered."

Like that.

How utterly disgraceful.

He represses the burning urge to acknowledge her, to cast a well deserved glare in her direction. How he wishes to level her with a single look - the type of look that will send her on her way. He wants nothing more than for her to leave him be, but he knows she will not. It is a sixth sense. She will not leave unless he formally dismisses her, and, even then, she will make a scene.

He would prefer to avoid the scene. He has grown weary of scenes. There have been so many as of late.

"I have selected a few noblewomen from branch families. They are—"

Before she can continue, he interrupts her with a pointed question: "Do you know why I spared you during the Scouring?"

He does not look up. He cannot be bothered. Instead, he merely continues filling out his forms. His brush now flows quietly across the page as the tension in his hands melts. Indeed, he feels his heart drum a fierce, strong beat in his chest. The steadiness of his heart's beat combats the dread that consumed him moments prior.

His aunt startles at his question. Her chest juts out. She jolts up. Her back squares until the line of her spinal column is ramrod straight and she is standing as stiff as a board. There is no more fluttering. There is no more pacing. There is no more mindless blabbering.

Part of him feels intense gratification that he has silenced her so soundly. It is no small feat. She is a battleax of a woman, after all.

The sting of icy quietness, however, proves too much for his aunt's nerves to bear. Her face flushes, her fingers curl into balls at her side, and her lips contort into a rictus of cruel malignity. She does not respond formally to his inquiry, but an unmistakable gargle escapes her lips in small bursts. She tries, futilely, to fight back the inelegant sounds, but he hears them all the same.

The once graceful motions of his brush become deft and workmanlike as he begins again, this time with thoughts sharpened. "It wasn't because I found you innocent, and it wasn't because I have a great fondness for you," he states quietly. His words are piercing, and his enunciation is deliberately pointed.

"It was because I thought death was not a cruel enough fate for _you_. I wanted to amuse myself at your expense, thinking, perhaps foolishly, that my wife's happiness would prove to be an exquisite exercise in torturing you."

Languidly, he reaches for another page. "I was correct." His well executed elocution descends into menacing boredom, which seemingly raises the unspoken question: 'Why do you continue to bother me?'

The penetrating silence, that follows in the wake of his last syllable, punctures his aunt, stealing her breath and pulling her umbrage. She stands stock still, and he imagines her expression is one of unbridled shock. He relishes the chill of her distress while simultaneously preparing himself for the indignation that surely burns in the pit of her stomach at his pronouncement.

Her indignation, however, never spews forth.

The shock has conquered her wits completely. She hardly moves. He cannot even hear her breathe.

"As you dismiss yourself, please remember that your utility is tied to my amusement. And, I find myself tiring of you." A quiet indifference imbues his meaning. Indeed, he has issued mundane orders with greater enthusiasm and attentiveness, which is the point.

In abject submission, his aunt stalks to the door, where she pauses.

He patiently waits for her to hurl an insult his way, or, at the very least, stomp out of the room. She, however, does neither of those things. Instead, she leaves without a word.

* * *

"Please allow me to extend our greatest sympathies for your loss, Lord Konoe." Hisana gracefully descends into seiza on a plush red cushion.

Rukia follows her sister's example. Her descent, however, is less elegant. Her muscles are sore and stiff from training earlier in the day, but she manages not to make a spectacle of herself. And, it's not as if, with Sister in the room, Lord Konoe pays her much heed. Very much aware of how little regard she is given, Rukia indulges her curiosity, allowing her gaze to roam the room without fear of discovery.

With wide probing eyes, she sits in awe among the splendor. Hungrily, she takes in the gilded ceiling before inspecting the walls. Everything glimmers, sparkles, and shines, even the floors. She swears she can see her reflection in every marble pillar or golden surface. It is overwhelming. She simply cannot comprehend the wealth that the Konoe must possess, and, unlike the Kuchiki clan, they are not afraid to bask in the radiant glow of their riches.

At this observation, Rukia feels intensely out of place, and this feeling incites a sudden wave of punishing self-awareness. She is accustomed to feeling diminutive at the Kuchiki estate, where the rooms are capacious and spartanly decorated, but, here, she feels under-prepared, under-dressed, and, perhaps, slightly under-baked.

Even Sister dons a more eye-catching kimono than her usual muted and matronly shades.

Although, as Rukia studies her sister with a keen eye, it is possible Hisana has merely wrapped herself in the Kuchiki finery with a purpose. It would be very in keeping with Hisana's subtle mien to wear layers of silk as a shield or, more likely, as a form of protest. The heat of Lord Konoe's gaze and the warmth of his touch cannot hope to reach her underneath so many luxurious fabrics.

Rukia observes her sister's interactions with the Konoe Lord with great intrigue.

Lord Konoe is handsome in a distinguished-gentleman-sort-of-way. He is older than Brother. Gray hair—emanating from his temples—threads through his otherwise raven tresses. He is tall and lean, like Brother. But, his features are more angular, and his countenance is quick to assume devious expressions.

A particularly devilish sparkle glints in his blue eyes as he speaks in a soft self-possessed cadence. It unnerves Rukia. She sensed it upon meeting him. At the time, however, she had not located the source of her unease. Now, it is all too apparent.

His strange cunning glances perturb her deeply.

"I appreciate your condolences, Lady Hisana." He bows his head out of forced politeness.

Rukia prickles at hearing her sister's given name. Only Brother sometimes teasingly calls Sister, "Lady Hisana." No one else does, and it sounds strange coming from a non-family member.

Instinctively, Rukia's hands untangle from the interlaced ball in her lap, and her arm pulls back. The movement is imperceptible to all but the shrewdest of observers, and neither Sister nor Lord Konoe is paying her any heed. Carefully, her fingers stretch up, and her brain waits to give her the signal…a signal that never manifests. No, the sensation of the coarse wrap of her hilt never licks against her palm.

She is without her Zanpakutō.

Immediately, her hand flinches. Her fingers curl into a fist, and she feels her nails sink into the soft pads of her palm. The realization is stark, and it leaves her feeling naked and exposed.

Lord Konoe's low melodic voice only augments Rukia's inner panic, and she lends a distracted ear to the conversation. "My wife was never meant to live long in this world, I am afraid," he says, watching Hisana pour a cup of tea.

"So unfortunate," Hisana murmurs. With an easy grace, she serves him first. "She was a gracious woman."

Rukia drops her head before her expression exposes her.

Hisana barely knew Lady Konoe. No one knew the Lady, really. She was kept locked away at the estate, never to be seen, always suspected of being too ill to be bothered with the company of others. Lord Konoe, however, never seemed particularly perturbed by his wife's absence. He had others to occupy his mind, and, likely, his bed.

Taking the cup from Hisana, a sly smile thins the Lord's lips as their fingers brush. He takes a small sip. "The youthful delicacy of young buds is truly pleasurable." And with that, his eyes, wolfish glints and all, flicker to Rukia.

"Is that so?" Hisana murmurs, a smile hangs thick in her voice. "I always think it is wiser to wait for the snow to melt first." Tenderly, she shoots Rukia a propitiating glance as she serves the tea.

In an instant, Rukia's heart skips a beat. They aren't talking about tea. That much, she knows. Her mind, however, trips over the possible interpretations.

"I know it is very hard to sway the Lady's mind once it is so set, but consider this token of my affection. If not now, then at a later date." Smoothly, he withdraws a small, ornately wrapped box from his silks. "A gift for your lovely sister." Gently, he offers it to Rukia, but his eyes remain locked on Hisana.

Rukia's eyes go wide, and her breath inflates her chest like air rushing into a balloon. What does _this_ mean? Is she supposed to take it? Can she refuse?

Hisana eyes Rukia. Concern darkens her countenance, but she gives Rukia a small nodding look. Her sister is too polite to direct her with words, but Rukia obliges Hisana's unspoken command.

Without hesitation, Rukia receives the Lord's offering, and she musters a demure smile and a gentle, "Thank you."

"How kind, Lord Konoe," Hisana manages, but Rukia can hear the well-hidden strain that resonates in her sister's voice.

"Forgive me if I assumed too much," he observes, staring deeply into Hisana's eyes.

_Assumed what?_ Rukia wonders as she tucks the parcel into a sleeve of her kimono.

The gift clearly carries _some_ meaning or purpose. What is it? Anxiously, Rukia stares down at the cushion upon which she is situated.

"Assumed?" Hisana's voice quavers at the intimacy of Lord Konoe's gaze.

"Your sister's suitability."

Hisana smiles decorously, and her eyes trail to the floor. "The Lord will not allow it."

"I see." Lord Konoe's brows rise at the implication—an implication that Rukia clearly does not understand.

Keeping her eyes glued to the ivory cushion, Rukia tries to discern the meaning of his words. Then, it dawns on her, and her fingers curl around the edges of her pillow with great force. Her knuckles go white, and her hands become numb with cold and tension.

_He cannot possibly be inquiring about my marriageability! Could he? Is it possible for me to be married off? I'm not a true noble, after all. Yet…._

"My honorable husband insists that she remain unattached at present," Hisana's response is swift and certain.

_He has?_ Rukia's heart goes wild.

_How embarrassing._

Suddenly, her mind's eye conjures up images of Byakuya and Hisana discussing her future and prospects as a bartering piece. The very idea drains her of her color. Like a feral animal railing against its captor's nets, her body jerks up. She catches herself just in time, before she can expose her poor manners. The pillow proves to be an adequate tether, but it doesn't change the fact that she wants nothing more than to flee the room.

She certainly did not sign up for _this_.

Realizing that she is staring intensely at the door, Rukia averts her gaze to Lord Konoe, who stares with great intensity at her sister, not her. Come to think of it, Lord Konoe doesn't seem the least bit interested in her. Indeed, he has hardly given her a second glance.

"My offer remains open should Lord Kuchiki experience a change of heart," he murmurs, pinning Hisana under his look.

"Of course." Hisana, however, does not linger in his gaze. No, she is quite content to throw it away in favor of a diversion. "The project appears to be doing quite well," she notes before taking a sip of tea.

"Yes," he nods, "Come, let me show you the grid we have developed."

Hisana waits for the Lord to stand before she obeys his command.

Rukia watches Hisana with a cautious glance before she takes to her feet.

Lord Konoe's presence has transformed Hisana.

Rukia observed it upon arriving at the manor, but, now, she analyzes it in greater detail.

Hisana never walks so timidly in Brother's presence. Not once. Never. At Brother's side, Sister is calm, poised, and imperturbable. She is strong, transcendent.

Now, Hisana is wraithlike. She is a mere ghost of her usual self, a phantom stalking the august halls of Konoe manor. Hisana escapes into herself, pulling deep into the silks that shield her from Lord Konoe's heated stare. She walks with tentative steps, as if she fears making the faintest of sounds. Her reiatsu is repressed. Perhaps Hisana wishes to leave the estate undisturbed in her wake. Not even a trace of her lingers in the air as she passes.

When they reach a large darkened room, the Lord unveils the "grid." It is quite impressive, Rukia is loath to admit. The grid emanates a glowing hologram map of Soul Society. Colors flicker on the map, with the most intense colors burning in the middle, in Seireitei.

"How fantastic," Hisana murmurs, happily. "It is nice to see the data in real time."

With a flick of his wrist, Lord Konoe expands a portion of the map on the operating device. "The current technology allows for both a bird's eye view and for a more localized view." He makes another motion with his hand, and he dials back the images. "We can also turn back time to see prior disturbances."

"Is it possible to load past data?"

He gives a noncommittal nod of his head. "To an extent. It won't be as thorough because not all the towers were running when we began collecting data."

"Of course," Hisana says softly. "But it is possible to have a model of years past?"

"Yes." Lord Konoe tilts his head to the side as if he is trying to discern the source behind Hisana's line of questioning. Turning up wanting, he digresses. "We will continue to track the number of hostile incidents among residents."

"Yes, of course," Hisana agrees.

"It appears that we will have the most difficulty past the 40th District." Lord Konoe gestures to the hologram, and, indeed, the districts beyond the 40th are lit in various shades of dim blues and greens.

"What do the colors mean?" Rukia asks, taking a timid step forward.

"The dark holes are hollows. The whites and yellows indicate souls with high spiritual power. Moving from yellow to green and blue are souls with moderate to low spiritual power. Red indicates aggressive incidents," Lord Konoe explains. "The spiritual pressure - we can monitor in real time without manual submissions. The incident reports require manual reporting from our affiliates."

Rukia nods. "How interesting."

"Have you found a permanent solution to the signal disruptions?" Hisana asks, folding her arms against her chest. Apparently, she is preparing herself for something disagreeable, Rukia observes to herself.

"After the signal disruptions randomized, we experienced great difficulty locating the source of the problem. We have worked around it by implementing a jamming avoidance response system."

Rukia's brows furrow. The jargon amounts to little more than an impressive-sounding collection of words. Neither she nor her sister knows what it means. Hisana, however, is quick to redress her ignorance. "A jamming avoidance response system?" Hisana repeats.

"Yes. It is quite possible that someone, unintentionally, was emitting a frequency very close to our own. The result was interference of our signal. So, we developed a mechanism for the signal to adjust when it detects a similar frequency to its own. The system appears to be working."

This news seems to perturb Hisana. She presses her lips together, her brows knit, and worriment wrinkles her forehead. "What could be causing the jamming?" she asks after a few tense moments.

Lord Konoe observes her with a cool glance. "Anything, Lady Hisana. It is nothing to concern yourself with. Allow me to shoulder this particular burden, milady." Comfortingly, he brushes a stray tress from her brow.

The devious glint in his gaze diminishes, and his eyes darken as he studies her in that tenebrious chamber. Only the flashing reds, blues, yellows, and whites of the holographic image illuminate them with their fleeting colors.

He watches her intently.

Too intently.

Rukia's eyes narrow. The embers of her distrust quickly ignite at his penetrating familiarity. For the second time that day, her hand searches her hip for her blade, and, for the second time, she is left clutching cold empty air.

It is little wonder why Hisana detests meeting this man alone.

Hisana lowers her head and takes a polite step back. "Thank you, Lord Konoe. Your talents are second to none. Words cannot express my gratitude."

"But actions..." he begins, insinuatingly. Once again, the impish glimmer sets his eyes aflame.

"Yes, I plan to meet with Lord Shihōin regarding the trade routes. We will offer our protection for the next supply caravan." Hisana is quick to pivot.

Lord Konoe responds with a wry grin.

With utmost delicacy and grace, Hisana and Rukia bid their adieus, and, upon reaching the bucolic trails of the Kuchiki estate, Hisana breaks her meditative state with a sly sidelong glance.

Rukia catches it, and her eyes widen slightly. She has so much to inquire of her sister, but the words don't manifest. Indeed, the sentiments prove rather elusive, turning to vapor in her mouth. Perhaps it is propriety's fault. It does seem gauche to inquire after Lord Konoe's strange behavior. But she really wants to know.

"Have you unwrapped your gift, Rukia?"

"Ugh," Rukia murmurs. She has all but forgotten the present, but, after a few nimble tugs, she releases it from a secret compartment in her robes. Balancing the box in her hands, she takes note of its weight. It is light, and its calibration is uneven. "Should I?" she asks, glancing into her sister's face.

Hisana doesn't have to say a word to encourage her. Just a simple nod of her head suffices.

In a flurry of staccato motions, Rukia peels back the expensive wrapping, exposing the item trapped inside.

_Oh, no._

Immediately, her eyes widen, and her chest seizes in icy panic, the tendrils of which climb up the back of her throat and choke her. She, however, stifles the wet gasp expanding in her mouth.

It is a lovely ruby-colored kanzashi.

Rukia searches Hisana's face.

Sister seems displeased. Incredibly so. Hisana drops her head, her jaws clench, and a pained expression etches its way across her visage. Rukia knows Hisana keeps her disgust locked behind a wall of practiced apathy, but she cannot mistake the sound of her sister's short sigh.

_Red._

_It had to be red._

* * *

It is late when Byakuya returns to the estate. As per usual, Hisana greets him with a smile, wraps him in clean silken robes, and offers him tea and food.

It does not take long for the pair to settle. Byakuya sits at his writing desk, where he works on a few last minute reports. A few paces away, Hisana quietly practices her embroidery.

After a few long silent minutes, Byakuya straightens his back as he feels the stiffening sensation of exhaustion (or listlessness) begin to creep into his bones. His eyes can barely focus; his vision becomes clouded. His neck aches. Even the muscles in his hands cry out in stiff agony.

Pulling his shoulders back slightly to release some of the pressure, Byakuya glimpses his wife out of the corner of his eye. He hasn't said anything. Not yet. And, he feels some pride at his level of restraint. No, he has not spoken a word. He did not mention her strange and sudden absorption in the art of embroidery. He did not note her equally strange and unsettling lack of movement. She sits eerily still with her back ramrod straight. And, yet, he does not say a word.

He merely stares at her.

Usually, it doesn't take long for the heat of his gaze to perturb her.

Still, she makes tiny almost imperceptible movements with her hands. Her needles cross in a rhythmic fashion. It is almost hypnotizing. Almost.

As he watches her, he studies her with an intensity ordinarily reserved for a potentially life-threatening situation. Her lines are stiff. She barely moves. Barely even breathes. She is lost in some strange flight of fancy.

His eyes slip down to her hands. When he sees what, exactly, occupies her needles, he can't keep his mouth shut any longer. Not for another moment. In a galling movement, his restraint breaks like chains against a great weight.

"Is there something the matter?" The question seems innocuous, but there is an edge to his voice; one that instantly gives him away.

Hisana startles. Her head bobs up, and her cheeks flush. "Oh, no, milord," she says. She forces her lips into an effervescent smile. "Why would you think that?"

No light shines in her eyes as she speaks. Her feelings burrow deep into her heart like a crab scuttling into the earth. She watches him with a sphinxlike expression.

Oh, how his wife loves her feigns.

He can tell she wanted to abort that question halfway through it. Her voice quakes, and her smile flickers, but her wide-eyed and exaggerated look of cheer remains.

"You are quiet." It is a poor prevarication, but he hopes she will capitulate and come clean.

"Milord is working." She gives the obvious reply.

Last time he springs for optimism.

"What are you making, Hisana?" A stale silence sinks between them, and she stares at him with that tightlipped expression. Clearly, she is begging the question. "It looks like a temari," he observes.

His stare hardens. If his suspicions are correct, this raises a _completely_ different line of inquiry.

Hisana's carefully constructed blithe façade immediately cracks. He swears he can hear the shattering sound that the pieces make as they hit the floor.

"Oh, _this_?" she asks, her voice rising several octaves on the inflection, "_This_," she begins, waving her hand as if she needs help grasping for words, "_This_ is _not _a temari. _This_ is a pincushion. You know. For pins. And needles. For my needlepoint and embroidery. So I won't stick myself. Keeps everything together." In her flustered cadence, all of the syllables, consonants, and vowels slur together. And, what she lacks in coherence, she only makes up for in wild hand gesticulations.

He barely understands _anything_ she just said. Even if he could comprehend her words, he wonders if her meaning made _any_ sense. Likely not.

His head dips down for a moment as he orders his thoughts.

He inhales and exhales a few deep breaths then he meets her gaze. His stare is even, almost leveling her. "It looks like a temari," he pauses and fixes her with a devious look, "You know. It is a toy. Mothers make them for their _children_. It is a small ball. Children toss it and roll it around," he mocks, deadpan and stone-faced.

Hisana's smile widens, and, for a flicker, he catches a sly glimmer in her eyes. She has been caught. She knows it. He knows it. But, she is an obstinate woman. She will not relent. Her lips pull into a tight smirk, and her brows arches as if he has issued a challenge.

"No, Lord Kuchiki," she insists. "It is a pin cushion. See." She gives a demonstration, stabbing a needle through the center of a rather elaborate floral design. "It holds pins." Her smile widens, but it does not reach her eyes or warm her heart. Instead, her expression seemingly asks the question: _Did you buy that?_

No.

He does not buy any part of that routine. Not a syllable. And, he wonders why she won't bend to his will and _tell_ him. If she is with child, it is _good_ news.

Very good news.

The sort that lifts the heart, and….

In an instant, he strangles on his breath as realization crashes into him with the force of a wrecking ball to the gut.

His wife could be with child.

His child.

They would be parents.

Reflexively, he returns to his writing desk, picks up his brush, and pretends to review an incident report. He doesn't actually read the words. He simply cannot. His mind is too busy soaking up the possibility that he…and she…would be….

He can't even think it. It is too unsettling. The change seems too real. Too horrifying. Then, he suddenly realizes he has no idea what parents even _do._ What would be expected of him? Of her? Of _them_, together? With and without. Or, while they were waiting for the arrival.

He would need books. Demonstrations. Proper training.

So would she.

Without hesitation, he turns to his calendar. Does he even have the time? He has a sinking feeling that preparations for something of this magnitude take a great deal of planning and mentorship.

Who would possibly mentor them? His usual sources are either dead or, unfortunately, childless. There is always Shirogane. He has a child, and he trained her well. (Is "training" even the proper _word_?) But, Shirogane's wife is deceased. Who would mentor Hisana?

Perhaps they should've discussed these possibilities in greater detail and with more specificity _beforehand_. It seems imprudent now, in hindsight. Almost reckless.

"Your hand," Hisana observes casually as she works her needles.

He gives her a quick over-the-shoulder glance. What about his hand? It is functional, quick.

"It is shaking," she finishes, eyes firmly locked on the temari.

He glowers at her. "My hand does not shake," he assures her. When he observes his hand, he finds his wife's assessment _correct_.

Merely releasing excess ink, he tells himself unconvincingly.

She stares perceptively into her creation, but she does not say a word. A knowing grin lengthens her lips, and her gaze softens as she appraises her work. She turns the ball, viewing it from various angles.

He watches her out of the corner of his eye. His brain lights in amusement, and he suddenly feels very vindicated. If it _were_ a pincushion, she would not inspect it so meaningfully. Why would she? Only she and she alone would ever see it. Additionally, the constant insertion of _pins_ and _needles_ would eventually ruin the lovely floral pattern.

Playfully, she rolls the ball across the floor. Before it can hit his leg, he stops its force with a hand, and he captures it. "A very multifunctional _pincushion_," he mocks her, and he sets the toy on his desk.

She bites her bottom lip as if she is weighing her words. Her chin dips down, and her eyes fall the tatami. "I," she begins, but her breath stops sharp in her throat.

He turns to her, giving his full attention. His gaze beseeches her to continue. He waits on pins and needles for her to say the words. He wants to hear them.

Apprehensively, she meets his stare, and her lips part. The words however, never come. She stifles them. She shoves them down her throat, and she swallows. A small smile lingers on her lips. A small _bitter_ smile. "When were you going to tell me that you were considering Rukia for Vice Captain?"

He lifts his head. "Now," he says, icily.

Hisana presses her lips together pensively, and her gaze darts to the floor. "You once said it wouldn't be on your orders that she was sent to her death." Her eyes flit to him. A wry smile tortures her.

"A change of heart," he murmurs, trying his best to discern the darkness residing in his wife's eyes. It is no use. Her veil is thick and impenetrable when she wishes it.

The pain quickly fades from her expression, and she teases him, "Ah, we are assuming you have a heart now." Her smile broadens as she eyes him.

He narrows his gaze until it becomes piercing. "You are evidence of my heart," he retorts, voice thick with sarcasm.

She chuckles at his forced umbrage. "There is other evidence," she murmurs gently.

"How long?"

Enough waiting and circumlocution, he decides. He wants to know just how long it has been since she found out. How long has she kept him in the dark?

"Rukia and I are scheduled to visit the shrine in a month."

Four months then, he thinks to himself.

She has kept it from him for that long. Surely, he should have noticed the change in her reiatsu. Then, the transformation seems stark, almost distracting. Yet, moments prior, he was just as benighted as he has been for the last four months.

"Rukia knows?" he murmurs. The question falls from his lips before he has the chance to process it or the prickling feeling that comes with the knowledge that his wife felt at greater ease divulging her secret to her sister and _not_ him.

Hisana nods, instantly apprehending the emotional color of his question before proceeding. "Yes. I did not want to lift your hopes until it was certain." Her features bend into a pained expression, but she is quick to smooth out the edges.

He probes her with a look of worriment. The implication is there, drifting under the surface of her reply. She has been with child before. It did not end well. She never told him. She never wanted him to worry.

He reaches for something meaningful or poignant to say, but the words never come. He just stares at her, thunderstruck.

She scoots closer and takes his hand in hers. "This is good news," she encourages him. "The baby is healthy, thriving."

He nods to himself, still sorting through it all. "Of course." He doesn't mean the words or the brusqueness threading through his voice. He chokes on the sensation building in his chest. He thinks she would be relieved to know he feels deeply for their future. She probably desires to hear of such feelings, but sentiments, meaningful and joyous, simply elude him.

He has never been good with expressing grand emotions.

He takes solace in the fact that she knows of his deficiency and loves him despite it.

He squeezes her hand.

* * *

**AN: **Thanks so much for reading! And to those who review, I really appreciate it!


	18. The Fall

**Summary:** Byakuya learns the nature of his wife's pregnancy. Rukia asks Renji for assistance. Hisana rushes to the infirmary when a mission goes awry where she must make a decision that will cost the Kuchiki family their investment.

* * *

**The Fall**

He blindly reaches across the mattress. The threads of the sheets lock the winter's chill in their fibers. Indeed, an icy sting nips at his fingers as they glide across the silk. But, when has hands, quiet and tender, find his wife through the cold darkness, his heart flutters. Her soft curves, growing more pronounced each day, calms him. She is there, and she is his.

He inhales a deep breath.

He is nearly swimming in her modified reiatsu. It smells of white plum and cherries. It is thick and heady. It draws him close, sparking an intense _need_. This sensation bubbles up from his stomach, and it flashes across him, setting his heart and his mind: No harm will ever come to his family.

He has made this vow several times throughout his life. At times, he spoke it as part of a predetermined script. Other times, he made the vow out of a sense of duty, charity, or loyalty. This time, however, it is different. The vow pours out of him in the velvety blues of dawn. It sets the heart and soul on fire.

Reflexively, he pulls her close against his chest, tangles her in a tight embrace, and buries his face in her inky locks. Careless hands find their way to her swollen stomach, where they quiet contentedly. He can breathe easy with her near, knowing all is as it should be.

Without warning, he feels the silken touch of his wife's hand against the top of his. She does not speak. She hardly moves as she slides his hand down to where he can feel a gentle fluttering, like the beating of a butterfly's wings.

"He's awake." Her voice barely reaches above a whisper.

He relaxes his hand against her, letting its weight sink into the alien sensation, but, before the last of his restraint falls away, she moves his hand once more to an area where the fluttering is more pronounced.

"He's awake, too."

Immediately, Byakuya's hand snaps back. His fingers curl into his palms . It feels as if the words have burned his flesh.

Likely anticipating his surprise, Hisana gives him a languid sidelong gaze. Her eyes are tranquil but dark in the slowly receding shadows of early daybreak. With a look, she soothes his poor enflamed nervous system, which crackles and pumps adrenalin at a steady rate.

The tension in his hand melts, and he tentatively rests his palm against her. She is correct. The fluttering is of a different quality. It is more intense, fierier. And, ever so slightly, he can feel the differences in reiatsu. The children's energy infuses with their mother's and with each other, but there is a gradient. He can parse out Hisana's spiritual pressure from theirs, and he can discern some differences between the children.

_Twins._

It explains why he loses Hisana's scent at times. She is strong, but she is no match for the two children's potential. Sometimes their pressure just swallows up her own, hiding her completely. At first, he assumed his child was going to be very strong, stronger than he. But, now, it makes more sense.

"They always seem more active when you're around," she murmurs.

"I could," he begins, but she silences him with a shake of her head.

"It is nice when we are all together," she says, preempting his offer with a quiet forcefulness.

He does not attempt to clarify the unspoken sentiments lingering on his tongue even if he feels them strongly: She needs her rest, and he will not allow his presence to deprive her of it. She will require her strength, now more than ever.

But, he will not press it.

He has made enough demands on her. Every part of her day—from what she wears to her diet—has been carefully regulated and regimented. She cannot suffer the cold, which necessitates several heavy layers of garments. Additionally, she must eat "warm" food, _not _"cold" foods, or sweet-tasting or dark-colored treats. Sadly, this results in the consumption of food that she dislikes, which has made keeping weight on her an ordeal. And to ensure she is healthy, her weight is carefully monitored on a daily basis to make sure she is gaining enough but not _too much. _

Then, there is the issue of work. He has expressly forbidden her from working, entailing all of her responsibilities to other family members. And, while he does not regret the decision itself, he is acutely aware of the strain it places on his wife. Hisana has been a proper lady about his so-called "edicts," never questioning him. But, he knows all too well that hers is a wandering soul. Like a bird, she is content to share her songs with him, but, when he leaves, she, too, flies away. Now, however, her pregnancy has tethered her to the estate, where she safe and protected but miserable.

Perhaps (as his steward has told him a time or _thirty_) he is being _overbearing_. He does not deny traipsing over her rights or infringing on her privacy, but it is unavoidable. Just as he must perfect his skill as a solider so too must she perfect her pregnancy.

* * *

"So, why am I here?"

Rukia pours a cup of sake for Renji and then for herself. It is the good stuff. The kind from the world of the living.

Renji takes a sip. His eyes flicker from the cup to her. The question still lingers in the air, but he is patient. He would never stand between an anxious Shinigami and her drink.

She throws back her head, draining the cup completely before placing it back on the table.

Renji sits in slack-jawed awe. He did not expect _that_. From Rukia? Is she in some sort of bind? Here he was thinking this was some trivial matter up for discussion. Guess he was wrong.

"Is," he begins but stops short when she reaches for the sake.

In silent shock, he watches as she replenishes her cup, takes a quaff, and sets it down. The clinking of the porcelain against the wood reveals it's empty.

Before she has the chance to go for another round, he preempts her. With lighting fast reflexes, the bottle of sake is sitting pretty next to him, all the way at the end of the table opposite of her. He shoots her a smug glance, his brow cocks up, and a corner of his lips slopes into a lopsided grin.

_Nope. Not going to be responsible for the drunken debauchery of a Kuchiki Princess. Not at the Kuchiki estate. Not by a mile._

"So," he tries again, but she silences him with a worried look.

Her large eyes drop to the floor, and her cheeks flush a bright pink. "I have to prepare a dance," she murmurs, timidly. For a mere second, her gaze flicks over to a white and yellow kimono stretched over a stand.

Oh, yeah. The _kimono_. Renji noticed it on his way into the room. He didn't ask about it then. He never does. He keeps a strict "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy ever since his academy days. He just assumes there are well-articulated _reasons_ for _things_, such as the motifs in Kuchiki manor.

"Did you show your sister?" he asks, lifting his sake bowl to his lips.

Rukia's face bleeds its color. Goes as white as a sheet of paper. Her eyes widen to the size of saucers, and her petal pink lips part at the sheer _stupidity _of his question.

_At least_, judging by the way she gapes at him, he _assumes_ she finds his question devoid of any intellect. Maybe it is, but he is quick to defend his rationale, "Isn't Lady Kuchiki a trained dancer?" According to the rumors, which he has a tendency to believe where the nobility is concerned, she was purported to be among the best dancers in the Pleasure Quarters, if not _The Best_.

And, _The Best_ isn't a superlative that gets thrown around by the nobility, not when it comes to members of the peasantry.

"_Yes_," Rukia says with a heavy emphasis on the unspoken, '_duh, Renji_,_' _that writes its way across her face.

Apparently, having a sibling _trained_ in dance wasn't enough for Rukia, which leaves him baffled. Completely baffled. Until realization hits.

Pride.

Rukia is too _prideful _to ask for help.

He represses the urge to roll his eyes as he takes another sip from his cup. "_And_?"

"_And_, I want Sister to be surprised when I perform the piece at the festival." .

"Well, Vice Captain Matsumoto is really proficient at dance," he says, partly to tease her and partly in earnest.

"Yeah, I know," she says sheepishly. "But, she is a Vice Captain, and busy."

Renji lifts a brow. "I think Momo enjoys _watching_ traditional dances. She would probably know what one is supposed to look like." Inference: He has no _damn_ idea what a traditional dance is _supposed_ be, do, or whatever… and he doesn't really want to find out. He has received enough of an education already.

Rukia immediately swats the suggestion away with a quick flick of her hand. "Momo is busy, too, with her duties as a Vice Captain."

Renji gives a hesitant survey of the room. He can almost feel the proverbial hammer begin its slow descent toward his head. _Gods, anyone but him._

"I was hoping you could help me out," Rukia murmurs shyly.

He quirks a brow at this. A multitude of excuses buzz in his head. Some of them are pretty good, but he capitulates to her beseeching glance. Always does.

"Okay." His voice sinks like a lead anchor.

Of course, he would oblige her. But, he doesn't know the first thing about dance. Not a damn thing. Hell, he isn't even sure if he's _seen_ a dance. He's fairly sure he's attended events with traditional dances, but he never really paid them any heed. It's not something members of the Eleventh really do—watch _art_. Or _do_ art.

He nods to himself—mostly because he feels a dull strumming-sort of misery begin to well in his chest. But, his gesture sends Rukia springing to her feet, and, seemingly out of nowhere, she conjures up a fan.

_Cripes, when has he become so predictable? _he grouses to himself.

Rukia moves to the front of the room, nearly tripping over a few large _tomes_ on dance in her excitement.

Of course. _Books_. She _would_ read books on dance. Why doesn't that surprise him?

"Yeah, so there won't be books on the stage," Rukia grumbles nervously to herself as she assumes a strange opening position. She flicks her fan open, and she begins.

He studies her, not knowing quite _what_ is happening. The moves don't really flow. Instead, she goes from one abrupt pose to another. The fan isn't really helping things, either, he thinks. He suspects that she isn't supposed to be wielding it like a small blade. Just an inkling, there.

The fan's leaves flutter in front of her face when she finishes, and with large imploring eyes, she waits, holding the position a few moments longer. Her breath catches in her chest, and she watches him, scrutinizing his features for any signs of emotion.

No luck.

His face is blank as a board. He has no idea what to say so he goes with his gut reaction. "Looked weird."

Immediately, the taut cords that keep her in rigid position break free. Her shoulders slump forward and her hips square out. She flicks her fan closed and shoots him a haughty look. "Renji!" she says with great exasperation. "I've been practicing for _hours_!"

"Hey, hey, hey" he begins, raising his hands, palm-side up, "Maybe _weird_ is what it's _supposed_ to look like. Not like I would know. Me. The guy who knows _nothing_ about _women's dance_."

Her eyes narrow, and she balls her free hand into a fist at her side. "What am I going to do?" she sighs, and, dejectedly, she drops into seiza on a cushion.

"Probably reading _books_ isn't going to fix your problems." Just a thought. One that displeases Rukia. Deeply.

Rukia lifts her head, but the disappointed look etched across her face remains. "Sister danced this piece every year before she married brother. They brought her all the way from Rukongai to do it—she was that _good_."

Renji's brows pop up at this. His imagination conjures an amusing mental image: Snooty highborn deigning to bring in a girl from Inuzuri to perform for them over and above their promising and talented daughters. Surely, Lady Kuchiki was stepping on noble toes way before she married.

"She can't do it this year?" Renji asks in earnest; however, he instantly regrets the question as soon as its implications fill his ears.

Never one to miss the opportunity to point out his moments of idiocy, Rukia shakes her head disapprovingly. "_No, Renji_," she begins in her patented deadpan, "It would be inappropriate to require a _pregnant married woman_ to wear a furisode."

He flinches at the iciness of her voice, but he covers nicely by draining the sake from his cup, hoping the liquor will defrost the icicles that now dangle from his nerves. His poor, sad nerves.

"I am going to dishonor her memory and disgrace the family," Rukia prognosticates.

Renji scoffs at her. _As if_, he thinks to himself, severely questioning whether she actually _believes_ she will disgrace the family.

"C'mon," he sighs, pulling her to her feet. He gives a long sad shake of his head. "Let's get to work." Grabbing her by her shoulders, he carts her out of the room.

"Are you sure?"

'Are you sure it can be done?' is what she is really asking.

"Of course."

Maybe?

_Hopefully_…

The moment that the pair crosses the threshold, however, Renji nearly shoves Rukia headfirst into her brother. Byakuya, however, is quick to abandon course, and he narrowly avoids the imminent collision.

"Rukia," Byakuya observes. He halts and acknowledges both of them with an expression of wide-eyed umbrage.

Cold.

Renji only gets _cold_ from Byakuya. Like permafrost. Rukia promises him that Byakuya isn't what he seems, but from where Renji stands, leveled by the noble's glacial stare and overwhelming reiatsu, he is beginning to question Rukia's judgment.

"Brother," Rukia says, voice dripping with some sort of heart-felt admiration that Renji is certain he will never experience, not if he lived ten thousand years.

She bows low.

_Oh, yeah_.

_Bowing._

After a few painfully embarrassing moments, Renji remembers his manners. He follows Rukia's lead, and he bows. Low. Just as low as she does.

"Renji Abarai," Byakuya says and gives a small nod of his head. It isn't really approval. It isn't really an admonishment, either. Renji doesn't really know what it is. Etiquette? Byakuya is always polite even if it is sandwiched between two slices of cool apathy.

"Captain Kuchiki," Renji replies, mustering a respectful tenor.

Rukia has no idea that he applied for the Sixth's Vice Captaincy vacancy. No clue. At all.

Suddenly, he wishes he hadn't.

His gaze locks on the burnished hardwood floorboards. He can see his reflection. A deep shade of embarrassment paints his features, and he is certain that his secret has somehow escaped.

He hasn't said anything, though.

Neither has Byakuya.

"Would you mind escorting me to the squads, Abarai?"

* * *

"Of course," Hisana murmurs to herself as she fishes inside a box. Her heart soars the instant her fingers grasp the final puzzle piece. With eyes squeezed shut from the sheer force of smiling, she shakes the paper in her hand, relishing the warmth of achievement.

Now, hopefully, she has located enough of the data to model the past few years.

A familiar furry flutter catches the fall of her sleeves, and she glances down. "What do you think, Mr. Cat?" she says, shaking the sheet of paper. "It is so exciting!"

With a shake of its regal feline head, the cat then promptly proceeds to rip her happiness asunder as it curls around _another _box of data. One she missed.

"Eh," she sighs and inhales a deep breath. Feeling her chest expand until her muscles burn, she exhales slowly and eyes the box with great disdain. Her lips pull to the side, as she considers how many more hours she has of sorting. More puzzle pieces. So many more.

She stifles the urge to groan, but barely. "Well, you could've shown me that _before_ my moment of reverie," she says teasingly under her breath.

Undeterred, the cat nudges the box open, and, clinging to a wall, the animal tips the container over. The papers spill across the floor in a white avalanche. Satisfied, the cat slinks inside, where it makes a few circular passes before plopping down to have itself a nice starefest at Hisana's expense. Seemingly, the cat bids Hisana to collate the data from the comfort of its box-palace.

A slow deflating sort of sigh falls from Hisana's lips. "In a minute." She still has to readjust her once grand expectations. Scowling, she inches to the scattered pages, but before she can stack them in her To Do pile, the door to the room creaks open.

"Lady Kuchiki," the steward's weathered voice reaches her through her staticky thoughts.

"Yes?" she responds. Reflexively, she finds the man through the thick shadows.

What happens next comes to her in a blur. She is certain the steward said something harrowing. Certain of it. The news has set off one big visceral chain reaction. Adrenaline floods her system, overrides it really. She can't think. Can't process. Certainly, she can't recall what Minamoto said that sent her into this downward spiral.

"Lady Kuchiki!"

In an instant, her fugue state shatters.

Hisana blinks. Finally, her thoughts quiet. Finally, the world pierces her confusion. Finally, she tethers herself to reality.

She is at the infirmary. How she got there, she doesn't know. Doesn't even bother to question it. She merely follows the orderly to her husband.

Tears burn in her eyes. In fact, her whole body feels like it is burning up, like she has caught flame. She can't think. Can't process. It is all a blur, but she bolts forward. Her fingers curl around his lifeless hands, and she glances up into the beeping machines that line the bed. She doesn't know why she bothers. Her vision is swimming, and, even if she wasn't blinded by tears, she can't read the monitors; they flicker in a language that she has never bothered to learn despite it all.

But, they are still making sounds. That is good, she tells herself. She knows what _bad_ sounds like. It sounds like electronic howling.

The machines, however, aren't howling. Indeed, as she holds his hand, she hears the beeping and hissing slow. Slow seems preferable. She hopes. Prays.

Somehow, someway, a chair manifests out of thin air, and she sits and stares. The thoughts are too painful. The reality, even more so. So, she sits, numb and unthinking.

"Lady Kuchiki?"

She doesn't hear her title, too consumed by the steady grief that churns through her veins.

"Lady Kuchiki?" This time the voice, a low male tone, begins to pull at the strings of her awareness. It is only a peripheral nuisance, however. It doesn't fully sink in. It doesn't move her.

The hand against her shoulder, however, rouses her.

"Lady Kuchiki?"

She jolts up as if she has been electrocuted, but, upon seeing the familiar face, her nerves settle. "Mr. Abarai," she murmurs.

Renji appears out of sorts. Unwell. His red hair, normally swept up off his shoulders, falls freely down his back. A wound above his brow has been patched with surgical glue; the residue of which still glistens in the florescent lighting.

She turns before his words can reach her. She already knows the line, as if fate has written it a thousand years before. She doesn't need to _hear_ it. She pretends it never happened, pushes it away as soon as her ears prickle at the weight of his words in the air.

Turning her attention to her husband, she brushes a few stray stands of hair from his face. His flesh is cold, too cold, and her heart sinks like a stone.

"What happened?" she asks, despondent.

Nothing.

Renji stands behind her. She can feel it, but he doesn't answer her. Before an uncomfortable silence has the chance to slip between them, she repeats the question.

"He protected his squads and mine. He fell protecting me."

"Is the perpetrator vanquished?"

"Not all of them."

She arches her head, but she refuses eye contact. "Where did—"

"The group fled."

Her gaze drifts to her lap. "Where?"

"I don't—"

She stands before he has the chance to finish. "Come with me, Abarai." She has an idea. It is particularly reckless. If she pursues it, she knows the fallout will be extravagant.

Obediently, he follows her.

"If we can narrow the target area, I will close all the trade routes to Rukongai to hinder escape efforts. I have—"

"Done."

She lifts her head. "Do you think?" She doesn't finish her question. Renji is strong, but….

"I will finish it."

Pride.

His voice swells with broken pride. She knows that sound well, better than she would like to admit. "Do you have your communication device?" she asks. Feeling defensive against the thoughts swirling in her head, she folds her arms against her chest.

"Yes?" Uncertainty creases his brow as he withdraws the device from his robes. It looks banged up, but it is operational.

Hisana glances down at the equipment's number, and she commits it to memory. "I will send you the coordinates when I locate them."

"Lady Kuchiki," he says warningly. "If you use your ... then…."

She shakes her head. _Enough_. She would sacrifice everything for her family. Forfeiting years of hard work to the Gotei 13 is a mere pittance.

"I will provide all the support functions," she says and gives a stern nod of her head. There will be no questions, only actions.

"Yes, Lady Kuchiki."

Before Renji can provide all the details of what happened when the mission went awry, a commanding but familiar voice interrupts him mid-sentence. "You don't think _you_ are going after the thugs that landed the captain of the Sixth at the Fourth all by yourself, Abarai?"

Renji doesn't even bother with a greeting. He just shoots the men a piercing sidelong glare.

"You think you get to hog all the glory?"

"Yeah, Abarai, it isn't very kind to deprive your fellow officers their chance at having fun."

Hisana acknowledges the two Eleventh division soldiers with a nodding glance. She doesn't know them, and she doesn't really care to be introduced at the moment. The more, the merrier. "I will send the coordinates, Mr. Abarai," she says. The moment that she hears the dissonance of men squabbling over _things_, she turns on her heels.

Taking a few strides toward the door, Hisana pauses. "If it wouldn't be too much," the sound of her voice quiets them, "please, bring me a token of your conquests. I will compensate you handsomely."

"What sort of token?" the less ornately styled of Renji's comrades inquires with some caution.

"Preferably, the heads."

Message sent; message received: Don't fuck with a Kuchiki.

* * *

**Author's Note:** As always, thanks so much for reading!

**Sunev.31:** Thanks so much! I think you are right regarding Tadahiro.

**Rose Attack:** Aw, I'm glad. I figured since the story is closing in on the SS arc, pregnancy will keep Hisana out of the fray while creating drama on its own.

**VioTanequil:** Thanks so much! Yes, I am very excited to explore Byakuya as a father, especially given his interactions with Yachiru in the series.


	19. The Fallout

**Summary:** Byakuya bears the brunt of his wife's scheming.

* * *

**The Fallout**

Reality comes to him in pieces—tiny fleeting pieces. He barely notices it at first. Swift shards of light puncture the velvety tranquility of his unconscious mind. It's like snow drifting on a capricious wind. Minutes pass in that strange limbo—conscious but not awake. The intermittent shimmers of the waking world lengthen as his senses reach out into the ether, searching his surroundings for signs of danger.

Reflexively, he flings an arm across the bed, and, as he is prone to doing, he scoops his arm back to his chest. The sensation of a soft mound elicits a deep breath. He expects to inhale a breath of white plum perfume. He expects to feel the warmth of his wife spark against the heat that slickens the skin.

What he gets is s_trawberries_ and the strangely soft but synthetic fabric of a polyester blend.

Taking in another gulp of air, his lips slope into a frown, and he grimaces. Indeed, the scent of strawberries and sugar nearly chokes him. The fragrance is abrasive, causing him to swallow hard to soothe his poor stinging throat.

_Rukia? _Indeed, Rukia smells of strawberries and sugar. His eyes fly open as the association crashes over him.

The sterile shades of a bleached world focus his attention, envelop him. In an instant, he realizes he is at the infirmary. The beeping and hissing of machines pull at the threads of his repose, and he observes the equipment lining his bed. Tubes run from the monitors to his arms… the same arms that clutch an oversized and overstuffed toy rabbit.

He breathes a shaky sigh of relief.

The alternative seems so much worse in comparison.

She must have given the doll to him out of some sense of familial love. He remembers seeing it once before. Yes, she was with Renji then. It was after the first of the Shiba's tragedies. Renji must have given her the toy for the same reason that she gave him the toy—for comfort.

He untangles himself from the stuffed animal and places it on a nearby desk.

"Your wife..."

He pauses, fingers hesitant to release the bunny as it teeters on the corner of the table.

He knows that growl. Despite the guttural sound, the voice belongs to a female. It is a captain—one who has seen the worst at greater length than he has.

"…told me to _fuck off,_" she finishes.

His eyes widen at the proclamation. The words—odious and not at all common in his presence—roil over him, needling him. Hisana would not have spoken such obscenity. If fifty-five years of abuse at the hands of his family had not driven her to it, nothing could. Certainly, not Captain Suì-Fēng.

_Right?_

The captain quickly reads and answers the question that bends his features into a quizzical configuration: "She has broken the terms of the agreement, and she will not relinquish her hold over the property that is rightfully ours."

Nothing.

He is drawing a blank, now.

His gaze narrows, fixing the captain, as he studies her fiery mien and even more heated sentiments. He feels as if he has fallen into the middle of a very ugly two-way conversation. There is little to ground him—terms, an agreement, and broken promises. Knowing his wife, it could be _anything_.

But, it isn't _anything_.

It is something. A very angry something. A something that is breathing down his neck and demanding that _he _resolve it.

His wife, however, has no dealings with the Gotei 13. At least, nothing he can recall. Hisana keeps the squads at an arm's length. She prefers the Powers That Be to be separate even despite the forces that insist on bringing them colliding together on the regular.

But, there must be a contract. With the Gotei 13. And, she has triggered some provision. Worse yet, she has broken her end of the bargain—something that seems very uncharacteristic of his wife. He keeps repeating this fact pattern to himself, hoping, futilely, the repetition will elicit some far-flung memory from the trenches of his mind.

"Her rights to the towers have been reassigned to _us_."

Towers?

It only takes a millisecond for the brunt of her words to impact him.

Now, he remembers the compact. The Five Families agreed to an arrangement whereby the Gotei 13 would not take possessory interest in the monitoring protocol _unless_ one of the families used the data for offensive purposes. "Offensive," if he remembers correctly, was construed _very broadly_. Should one of the families use the monitoring system offensively, then the Gotei 13 would take possession of the offending family's share, allowing the family to retain only the profits.

If Suì-Fēng is correct, then the Gotei 13 has possessory interest in two shares of the monitoring system—the Kuchiki and Shiba. Or, at least, the Gotei 13 _thinks_ it has possessory interest in two shares. Likely, if his wife were to do something rash, she would have assigned the Shiba's portion to another family. Fast maneuvering was not beyond her. Shortly after the Shiba's fall and subsequent exile, Hisana had managed to liquidate and assign the family's financial interests to the Kuchiki before the Chambers could seize the funds for themselves.

"I will speak to Hisana about this matter," he says confidently.

"Please do. I would _hate_ to bring this issue before the Central 46 for adjudication. It would be disgraceful."

He has the distinct impression that Suì-Fēng would _relish_ the opportunity to bring this contract dispute before the Central 46. He, however, does not push the issue. There is simply no point.

"I will see to it that this dispute is resolved amicably." He channels his father in a rare moment of studied diplomacy.

"Good." There is a strong undercurrent of, _'You better,'_ undulating in her voice, but she does not say it outright. Instead, she pins him with a glacial stare.

He could take lessons.

When her glare relents, she turns on her heels and swaggers through the door.

Byakuya's gaze centers on the door to his room a few moments longer before his eyes drop to the floor where Chappy has fallen. He grimaces at the toy, but he picks it up nonetheless. Heaving a small sigh, he sets it on the table where he notices a small note and envelope.

He unfolds the note and instantly recognizes his wife's calligraphy. It reads, _'Enclosed please find the remuneration for Renji and his friends' acts of bravery and triumph.'_

Byakuya's eyes widen, and his lips part.

There are so many loosely defined words with so many grave implications.

Somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, his heart beats a quick throbbing rhythm. He does not wish to know the what, where, why, who, and how of this particular story. His imagination is too quick to fill in the gaps.

He does not bother with the envelope. He does not need to know the extent of his price. From his conversation with the Captain of the Second, he has a good estimate already. He is merely content with knowing that at some point, later in the day, Renji and "his friends" will come seeking their reward.

He only hopes they do not bring proof of their _"bravery and triumph."_

They do not.

They never come at all.

According to Rukia, who visits him in the early evening, the brave ones and Renji went directly to Hisana for their reward.

He does not inquire after it.

"The monsters are gone, Brother. It was gory," Rukia elaborates, unprovoked. She would know. Renji likely apprised her of everything.

He does not encourage her even though he senses she would prefer to continue. He thinks she is disturbed by her sister's capacity for brutality.

He is not.

Rukia, however, has always straddled a precarious line—that of solider and that of adolescent. To her, donning the Shihakushō and cuddling a stuffed rabbit are not only compatible but normal. There is no dissonance for her.

There is dissonance for him.

She seems childlike sitting at his bedside. Her wide blue eyes timidly meet his gaze in fleeting glances. Her color rises if she stares a moment longer than she feels is necessary. She clutches her plushie to her chest for comfort, as if the chill of his presence is too much for her to bear at times.

If her hands were not calloused from years of wielding a sword, she would seem very young indeed. If she did not wear the shades of a Shinigami, she would be no different than the countless adolescent girls that mill around the market. She wears her innocence carelessly, and she clings to her status as a solider just as brazenly.

It disarms him.

"You may return to the manor, Rukia," he says softly, hoping her absence will give him a moment to refocus his thoughts. For some reason, he finds her expectations of him unreasonably troubling.

She nods her head. Ever obedient. Ever eager to do as he bids. Even when he is wrong. And, he is fallible. Intensely so. She must know this, he hopes.

Yet, as she bows, he has a sinking feeling that she does not think it possible for him to be anything other than godlike.

But, he is no god.

Not even close.

"Sister!" Rukia calls, half-surprised and half-excited at her discovery.

Indeed, Hisana pauses at the threshold and nods. "Rukia," she acknowledges her sister with loving intonations.

Rukia bows her head.

Rukia responds to Hisana with less reverence but with a love that is more filial. Hisana is fallible—she makes mistakes. Her mistakes are expected and understandable. Her errors are humanizing, and her humility proves to be the glue that bonds the two sisters.

He wishes Rukia would see him in a similar light because false gods have a tendency of falling.

Once Rukia bids them good night, he turns to his wife. "You've been busy." He hopes to sound sufficiently disapproving, but he falls flat when he feels the gentle flutter of his wife's reiatsu against his.

She sits at his bedside. Her hands do not hesitate in finding his own. The heat of her palms warms him, but he tries all the same to refuse her eye contact. She has defied his express wishes to avoid all stressful activities. She has sacrificed family investments. She has placed herself and the children in harm's way. And for what purpose?

Petty revenge.

"I could say the same about you," she teases, eyes darting across the row of machines that keep him chained in the bed.

"A foreseeable hazard."

"Your foreseeable hazard becomes my foreseeable hazard."

"I would never require you to," he begins, but, as soon as he meets her gaze, he falls into the dark tranquil depths therein.

Words just don't seem to matter, then. The admonishments, which were whipping across his tongue only seconds ago, dissipate. The breath squeezes from his chest, and his mind clears.

Where is he again?

She squeezes his hand. It is a simple act—one that brings him back. "What is done is done, milord."

He closes his eyes. Actively, he refuses the spell of slumber that plucks the threads of his conscious mind, threatening to pull the black curtain of deprivation across his senses. He has words—things he has been meaning to say—that silence cannot stifle. "Captain Suì-Fēng informed me of your maneuver earlier today."

"Which one?"

He cocks a brow and opens an eye. He is half-expecting her question to be made in jest. It, however, _is not_.

His wife is perfectly sincere.

He represses the urge to glower. "The one about the broken agreement, towers, and possessory interests."

The corners of Hisana's lips curl into a half-hearted grin. "Oh, _that one_," she says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Is it true that you refuse to abide by the contract's terms?"

Hisana nods. "For the time being, yes, milord."

"Do you believe you will succeed if Suì-Fēng brings her claim against our family to Chambers for adjudication?"

Hisana gives a long thoughtful shake of her head. "Not in the least. Captain Suì-Fēng would win on the merits."

His brows furrow at this. The obvious question—_Why?—_seems less obvious as he contemplates the situation. If his wife is of the belief that their claim against the Gotei 13 is meritless, there must be another reason that she wishes to pursue this course of action. The question then becomes, "What is the purpose of stalling, Hisana?"

Her smile broadens at his insightfulness. "The Second is not the only division that is interested in the data, milord. The Twelfth will also join the Second in a claim."

"You hope the actual dispute will be between the divisions?"

She nods. "And while they are disputing the facts and carving up the power, I will have time to gather more data and create duplicates."

His gaze sharpens into a piercing glare at her use of the word, _'I.'_

Catching his look, she lowers her head. "By _I_, I mean, of course, your very talented and astute _cousin_."

The intensity of his gaze lessens, but only slightly. "I see. And the Shiba's shares?"

"Assigned to the Shihōin," she states matter-of-factly. "The family promises to maintain the same financial arrangement we currently have with the surviving members of the Shiba family."

Of course, his wife would see to it that the Shiba were provided for.

He nods approvingly before asking the question that has been needling him all day. "Did you really tell Captain Suì-Fēng to _fuck off_?"

Hisana's eyes widen at his cautiously delivered crudeness. She is clearly taken aback by the question and its possible implication. "Absolutely not."

A small smile thins his lips.

"Should I've?"

* * *

**Author's Notes:** A short, somewhat boring chapter. Hopefully, the next installment will have more interesting dynamics and get the ball rolling for the intro to Bleach proper. Thanks for reading!

**Rose Attack:** Thanks so much! I find pregnancy, marriage, and funeral customs across cultures intensely interesting so it was fun adding that in.

**Sunev.31: **Oh, no, Byakuya doesn't die. Just a little incapacitated. Thanks so much for reviewing!

**Makiko-maki maki**: Thanks so much for the review! I really appreciate it! I hope to get some quality characterization with Byakuya and the babies, which I think will be an interesting given his propensity to be over-protective.


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